WO  APACHES 
OF  PARIS 


8c  Gl/VUDE- ASKEW 


*N 


I  Of- 


AV»NU« 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 


TWO  APACHES 
OF  PARIS 


BY 

ALICE  &  CLAUDE  ASKEW 

Authors  of 

"The  Shulamite,"  "The  Rod  of  Justice," 
Etc. 


NEW  YORK 

WILLIAM  RICKEY  &  COMPANY 

1911 


Copyrighted  1911,  by 
WILLIAM  RICKEY  &  COMPANY 


Pre»  of  Wffliam  G.  Hewitt.  Brooklyn.  New  York. 


SSlf 
URL 


INTRODUCTION 

As  NEW  YORK  has  its  gangsters,  and  London  its 
Hooligans,  so  Paris  has  more  or  less  organized  bands 
of  street  ruffians  of  the  lowest  type,  who,  within  the 
last  decade,  have  come  to  be  known  as  "Apaches."  Be- 
stowed at  first  by  some  Parisian  newspaper  men,  who 
had  in  mind  the  crudest  and  most  dangerous  tribe  of 
American  Indians,  the  appellation  has  been  accepted 
by  the  Paris  Apaches  themselves,  not  as  a  stigma,  but 
as  a  name  worn  with  no  little  pride. 

And  they  do  not  belie  it.  The  tough  class  of  no 
other  city  goes  to  such  lengths  of  wanton  cruelty,  of 
absolutely  reckless  indifference  to  law  or  morality,  or 
of  murder  done  seemingly  oftentimes  for  the  sheer 
sake  of  doing  it. 

Affiliated  in  bands  or  gangs,  like  those  of  New  York 
City,  each  with  its  colors  and  "signs,"  and  each  under 
the  domination  of  some  man  more  daring  or  "quick 
on  the  draw"  than  his  fellows,  they  terrorize  a  large 
portion  of  the  French  metropolis.  Certain  quarters, 
even  in  broad  daylight,  seem  to  be  entirely  at  their 
mercy :  the  police  of  the  city  being  apparently  power- 
less to  break  them  up. 

Unlike  their  New  York  confreres,  their  weapon  is 
not  the  revolver,  but  the  knife,  a  far  more  silent 
weapon,  which  they  can  also  throw,  javelin-like,  with 
deadly  accuracy.  Unlike  the  New  York  gangsters, 
they  make  no  attempt  to  mix  in  politics.  They  are  a 

v 


vl  INTRODUCTION 

class  by  themselves,  with  their  own  laws,  tribunals 
and  customs — even  their  own  language,  for  their  argot 
is  almost  unintelligible  to  the  native  Frenchman. 

Their  work  and  sustenance?  Chiefly  highway  rob- 
bery of  the  crudest  type.  Many  a  victim  is  played  into 
their  hands  by  their  women.  Others  are  simply  street 
hold-ups,  a  handkerchief  garrote  peculiar  to  the  ilk 
taking  the  place  of  the  American  sandbag.  If  neces- 
sary, the  victim  is  tortured  until  senseless,  without  the 
slightest  qualm;  or,  if  advisable,  knifed,  and  left,  or 
tossed  into  the  Seine  with  little  ceremony. 

A  further  word  should  be  said  of  the  Apache  women. 
Mostly  of  the  courtesan  class,  the  men  act  toward  them 
the  part  of  the  American  cadet.  And  while  the  men 
Apaches  are  brutal  degenerates,  the  women  are  often 
prepossessing,  equally  cold-blooded,  it  is  true,  but  of 
far  higher  intelligence.  Their  very  intelligence  makes 
them,  if  anything,  more  dangerous.  They  are  the 
spiders  who  lure  the  intended  victims  into  the  Apache 
web.  On  the  street  one  easily  recognizes  them — hat- 
less,  bold,  self-possessed. 

The  haunts  of  the  whole  tribe  are  the  cheaper  cab- 
arets, the  cafes  near  the  markets,  and  in  the  older 
faubourgs.  In  the  questionable  dance  and  concert  halls 
they  may  be  seen  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  taking  their 
pleasure  as  crudely  as  their  drinks  and  their  "business." 

To  root  them  out  is  no  small  problem.  However 
much  they  quarrel  among  themselves,  they  are  banded 
together  implacably  and  avowedly  against  society  in 
general.  The  gendarme  who  arrests  one  of  them, 
the  judge  who  convicts  one,  are  marked  men;  and  the 
arm  of  the  Apache  is  as  long  and  patient  as  that  of  the 
Italian  Camorra. 

THE  PUBLISHER. 


Two  Apaches  of  Paris 


CHAPTER  I 

ROBIN  CLITHERO  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed 
heartily.  His  laugh  was  loud  and  resonant  and  it  rang 
true. 

"What  a  chap  you  are,  Owen,"  he  gasped,  when  he 
had  somewhat  recovered  his  breath ;  "the  deuce  only 
knows  what  you'll  think  of  next !" 

It  was  an  occasion  for  merriment,  and  Robin's  laugh 
was  by  no  means  singular.  The  famous  dancing-hall 
of  the  Moulin  de  la  Bonne  Fortune,  at  Montmartre,  was 
thronged  by  a  fantastically  garbed  crowd  given  over 
to  the  wild  license  of  a  carnival  ball.  It  was  the  night 
of  Shrove  Tuesday,  when  extravagance  and  folly  held 
undisputed  sway. 

The  Saturnalian  revel  was  at  its  height.  Dancing 
was  only  indulged  in  in  a  desultory  fashion — a  "go-as- 
you-please"  entertainment — save  when  space  was 
cleared  for  professional  performers ;  the  floor  was  car- 
peted with  many-hued  confetti,  and  the  air  was  dust- 
laden  and  heavy;  the  countless  electric  lights  glowed 
red  and  yellow  through  a  mist  of  tobacco  smoke  and 
the  steam  of  perspiring  humanity.  The  band  brayed 
intermittently,  heedless  of  the  accompaniment  of  toy 
trumpets,  whistles,  and  cat-calls — the  thousand  and  one 

1 


2  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

noises  in  which  such  a  crowd  delights;  everyone  did 
just  as  he  or  she  liked,  and  it  was  all  breathless,  spon- 
taneous, and  irresponsible. 

From  the  box  where  Owen  Mayne  was  entertaining 
his  Bohemian  friends — fellow  artists,  models,  anyone, 
in  short,  who  cared  to  claim  his  acquaintance — one 
looked  down  upon  a  kaleidoscope  of  color — a  seething, 
swirling,  palpitating  mass  of  life,  painted  in  lurid  hues 
that  fascinated  by  their  very  discordance. 

The  crowd  had  been  particularly  dense  below  the  box 
a  few  minutes  ago.  It  was  due  to  a  happy  inspiration 
on  the  part  of  Owen  Mayne.  By  means  of  a  rod  and 
string  he  had  suspended  object  after  object  dear  to  the 
feminine  heart — flowers,  perfume  in  bottles,  light  arti- 
cles of  attire — over  the  heads  of  the  masqueraders, 
swinging  them  irritatingly  before  women's  faces  and 
then  jerking  them  out  of  reach  as  soon  as  eager  hands 
were  stretched  out  to  grasp  them. 

It  was  great  fun,  attended  by  much  springing  in  the 
air,  queer  contortions,  the  elbowing  and  pushing  of 
one  another,  giggling,  and  general  hubbub.  The  male 
lookers-on  cheered  and  encouraged  the  competitors 
to  fresh  exertions;  one  big  fellow  had  lifted  a  slim 
Pierrette  upon  his  shoulders,  making  occasional  dashes 
forward  with  his  charge,  while  another  held  his  girl — 
a  pink-cheeked  and  flaxen-haired  doll — by  the  arms  and 
jumped  her  up  and  down  in  the  quaintest  fashion  when- 
ever the  swinging  object  came  within  her  reach.  Now 
and  then  a  general  rush  would  be  made,  a  rush  that 
invariably  ended  in  a  scuflfle  upon  the  floor. 

The  contest  had  reached  its  height  over  a  pair  of 
gaudily  buckled  garters.  It  was  the  final  disposition 
of  these  which  had  aroused  Robin's  mirth.  At  the 
same  time  Owen,  wearied  of  the  game,  rose  and  bowed 
gracefully  to  the  clamouring  crowd,  and  then  retired 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  3 

to  the  back  of  the  box,  taking  Robin  with  him ;  their 
places  in  the  front  were  immediately  occupied  by  a 
couple  of  showily  dressed  girls,  one,  tall  and  handsome, 
known  as  "La  Grande  Rose,"  the  other,  fragile  and 
pretty,  as  "P'tit  Bleu" ;  they  were  both  models,  and  of 
course  had  their  attendant  swains. 

"Now  we  can  have  a  chat,  Rob,"  said  Owen,  after 
he  had  given  an  order  for  refreshment.  "I'm  glad  you 
caught  sight  of  me  and  came  up.  We  never  seem  to 
meet  now  that  you've  elected  to  bury  yourself  at  Fon- 
tainebleau.  Such  a  mad  thing  to  do — at  this  time  of 
year." 

"It's  cheap  living,"  responded  the  other  readily, 
"and  away  from  temptations.  And,  then,  I  love  the 
forest,  know  every  inch  of  it,  and  like  to  paint  it  in  all 
its  moods.  Besides,  there's  another  reason  why  I 
should  love  Fontainebleau."  He  gave  a  queer  little  jerk 
of  his  head,  then  added  quickly,  "But  that's  ancient 
history.  Anyway,  the  country  is  good  enough  for  a 
plodder;  Paris  is  for  geniuses  like  yourself,  Owen, 
soaring  rockets." 

Robin  Clithero,  big,  honest,  and  stolid,  nondescript 
of  colouring  and  homely  of  face,  gazed  with  a  certain 
envy  at  his  better  favoured  friend.  Owen  Mayne  was 
certainly  very  good-looking,  even  if  it  was  after  a 
rather  flashy  manner.  He  was  tall  and  slim  and  dark, 
and  had  a  "hail-fellow-well-met"  way  about  him  that 
was  quite  delightful  and  earned  him  considerable  pop- 
ularity— especially  with  women.  The  red  "Mephis- 
topheles"  costume  he  wore  suited  him  admirably. 

Yet  they  were  great  friends  these  two,  though  un- 
doubtedly the  devotion  was  more  on  the  side  of  Robin. 
It  was  in  his  nature  to  bestow  a  certain  dog-like  fidelity 
upon  anyone  who  had  captured  his  affection.  Besides, 
he  considered  that  he  owed  a  debt  to  Owen  Mayne,  who 


4  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

upon  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting  had  saved  his 
life  under  somewhat  exciting  circumstances,  and  Robin 
never  forgot  a  debt — it  was  another  of  his  peculiarly 
unbohemian  characteristics. 

"If  I  soar  like  a  rocket,"  laughed  Owen,  "I'm  just 
as  likely  to  come  down  like  a  stick.  You  know  the  sort 
of  chap  I  am,  Rob.  I  can't  put  my  shoulder  to  the 
wheel — never  could.  Look  at  my  picture,  'The  Cham- 
ois Hunter,'  well,  I  haven't  touched  it  since  I  saw 
you  last." 

"But  why  not?"  protested  the  other.  "I  tell  you, 
Owen,  that  that  picture  would  make  your  name  and 
fortune.  I  always  said  so.  A  fine  piece  of  work,  full 
of  symbolism." 

"You  know  why  I  chucked  it  up,"  responded  Owen, 
a  touch  of  impatience  in  his  tone.  "La  Place  Pigalle 
couldn't  provide  me  with  the  style  of  face  I  wanted  for 
my  siren — nor  the  whole  of  Paris,  for  the  matter  of 
that.  I  suppose  it  doesn't  exist  except  somewhere  at 
the  back  of  my  brain,  whence  it  peeps  out  mockingly 
in  my  dreams — but  it's  so  infernally  elusive,  and  I'm 
hanged  if  I  can  ever  put  anything  on  canvas  that  re- 
sembles it  to  the  smallest  extent.  So  what's  the  use 
of  trying  ?" 

"But  why  not  do  with  a  substitute — why  just  that 
particular  face?"  urged  Robin.  "There  are  lots  of 
pretty  girls " 

"Pretty  girls!"  exclaimed  Owen  scornfully.  "It's 
not  a  pretty  girl  that  I  want.  There's  P'tit  Bleu  who 
sobs  her  blue  eyes  out  because  I  won't  let  her  sit.  But 
do  you  think  my  siren  is  to  be  the  style  of  a  mere 
brasserie  wench?  No,  old  man,  my  siren  must  be  a 
tigress,  a  panther,  with  a  woman's  face  and  form.  She 
must  have  the  beauty  of  consummate  vice.  She  must 
horrify — but  allure.  Her  hair  must  be  a  net  in  which 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  5 

all  the  sins  of  the  world  are  caught  and  held.  Her  eyes 
must  burn  you  with  their  passion.  They  must  be  like 
mirrors  in  which  you  see  reflected  the  most  secret 
desires  of  your  heart.  Her  mouth  must  be  an  opium- 
soaked  poppy,  the  kisses  of  which  are  delirious  phan- 
tasms, oblivion,  and  death.  And  her  body — ah,  her 
body — a  snake-woman,  subtle,  lithe  and  enveloping, 
with  a  grip  that  only  relaxes  when  your  very  spirit  has 
been  absorbed.  That's  my  siren,  Rob.  Is  it  any  won- 
der I  haven't  found  her  ?  But  I  tell  you  if  I  ever  did 
I'd  give  myself  to  her — yes,  body  and  soul." 

"Thank  God  you  haven't !"  retorted  the  more  simple- 
minded  Robin.  "And  for  your  own  sake,  old  fellow, 
I  hope  you  never  will.  Give  me  P'tit  Bleu  any  day  in 
preference  to  your  monster.  Hullo !"  he  added  quickly, 
stepping  to  the  front  of  the  box  from  which  the  girls 
and  their  companions  had  by  now  retired.  "What  are 
they  up  to  ?  A  special  dance,  eh  ?" 

A  space  had  been  cleared  in  the  centre  of  the  great 
saloon.  Fantastically  attired  couples  were  taking  up 
their  positions  in  sets  of  eight.  There  was  to  be  a 
"quadrille"  danced  by  professionals.  Robin  recog- 
nised familiar  faces,  and  cried  out  their  names  to  the 
girls  at  the  back  of  the  box. 

"There's  Zouzou  1'Epatante  over  there,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "She's  with  Manon  la  Cigale.  And  here's 
Toupet  Gris  in  the  set  close  to  us,  so  we  shall  see 
something  in  the  way  of  high  kicking." 

They  all  leaned  over  the  ledge  of  the  box.  The  band 
played  the  introductory  bars  of  a  favourite  dance. 
Robin  waved  his  hand  to  Toupet  Gris,  who  executed 
a  fantastic  pas-seul  in  response,  ending  up  with  an 
exaggerated  curtsey. 

"Who's  the  girl  facing  us — the  one  dancing  with  that 


6  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

ugly  chap  who  looks  like  an  Apache?"  queried  some- 
one as  the  quadrille  began. 

Owen  Mayne  and  Robin  turned  their  eyes  in  the 
direction  indicated.  They  saw  a  thin,  lithe,  and  black- 
clad  figure  bent  almost  double  over  the  arm  of  a  for- 
bidding-looking youth,  who  seemed  to  have  aped  no 
disguise,  but  come  to  the  ball  in  the  costume  that  was 
natural  to  him,  the  blouse  and  red  scarf,  the  tight 
trousers,  the  peaked  cap  of  the  loafer  of  the  outer 
boulevards — the  so-called  Apache. 

The  next  moment  the  girl  was  standing  erect,  smi- 
ling, and  displaying  teeth  that  were  dazzingly  white, 
small,  and  sharp,  and  which  served  to  enhance  the  vivid 
crimson  of  her  lips.  Her  glorious  black  hair  hung 
loose  over  her  shoulders.  It  was  a  small  face  and,  save 
at  the  lips,  almost  devoid  of  colour. 

Robin  glanced  apprehensively  at  Owen.  "She  looks 
a  devil,"  he  muttered;  "a  devil.  Do  you  know  her, 
Rose?" 

Rose,  a  heavily  built,  dark  girl,  leant  her  arm  famil- 
iarly upon  the  man's  shoulder  and  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  his  eyes.  Then,  with  a  sharp  exclamation,  and 
disregarding  Robin,  she  turned  to  the  other  girl,  P'tit 
Bleu,  whose  attention  just  then  was  wholly  taken  up  by 
a  flirtation  in  the  incipient  stage. 

"Regards-moi  qal  Zelie,  of  all  people  in  the  world, 
Zelie  la  Couleuvre!  Who'd  have  thought  she'd  have 
the  cheek  to  show  herself  here?  Qu'en  dis-tu,  Pou- 
lette?"  Rose  had  slipped  her  arm  round  the  waist  of 
P'tit  Bleu,  dragging  her  ruthlessly  to  the  front.  The 
two  girls  were  devoted  friends  and  inseparable  com- 
panions. 

P'tit  Bleu  uttered  bird-like  chirps  of  wonder.  She 
had  a  round,  precocious  face  and  an  impertinent,  tip- 
tilted  nose.  Her  speech  was  twittering  and  she  af- 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  7 

fected  little  jerky  movements  of  the  head,  like  a  spar- 
row. Her  costume  represented  a  blue  bird,  which  was 
quite  appropriate. 

"Nothing  like  advertisement,  my  dear.  I,  too,  I 
will  one  day  be  mixed  up  in  a  murder  trial,  and  then — 
who  knows  ? — all  Paris  may  want  to  paint  my  picture." 

Robin  flicked  with  his  finger  the  bare,  comely  arm 
that  still  rested  on  his  shoulder,  recalling  himself  thus 
to  attention. 

"I  asked  you  a  question,  Rose.    Who  is  this  Zelie?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?"  The  two 
girls  chorused  their  surprise.  Then  Rose  volunteered 
the  required  information.  She  spoke  in  jerky,  discon- 
nected sentences. 

"Six  months  ago,  wasn't  it?  Half  a  dozen  vauriens 
— rascals  from  the  fortifs — Apaches — they  fought  to- 
gether— it  was  a  fierce  and  bloody  struggle — they  were 
all  wounded  and  carried  to  hospital — two  died — and 
•what  did  they  fight  for,  you  ask?"  The  girl  jerked  her 
elbow  in  the  direction  of  the  dark-clad,  swaying  figure 
below.  "It  was  for  that  creature — the  Queen  of  the 
Apaches,  as  they  called  her.  And  they  were  none  the 
better  for  shedding  their  blood — those  who  lived.  Of 
course,  she  took  up  with  another — while  they  went  to 
prison.  There  he  is — her  type.  An  Apache  of  the 
Apaches.  They  dance  together  at  the  Florian.  For 
naturally  Zelie  became  notorious — one  only  has  to  get 
one's  name  in  the  papers  for  all  the  world  to  want  to 
see  you.  And  there  she  is,  the  coquine,  parading  her- 
self here  instead  of  hiding  in  the  gutter  where  she  be- 
longs." Rose  spoke  with  righteous  indignation. 

"But,  sapristi,  she  can  dance!"  The  speaker  was 
Jean  Brieul,  the  young  man  to  whom  P'tit  Bleu  was 
devoting  herself. 

Owen  had  not  been  listening.    He  was  sitting  on  the 


8  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

other  side  of  Robin,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  velvet- 
covered  ledge  of  the  box,  his  chin  sunk  in  his  hands. 
His  eyes  fixed  upon  Zelie. 

Robin  noticed  this  and  tried  to  distract  his  friend's 
attention.  "Look  at  Toupet!  She's  just  kicked  that 
chap's  hat  off."  He  laughed — a  strained  laugh. 

Owen  gripped  him  by  the  arm.  "Robin,"  he  whis- 
pered excitedly.  "I've  found  her!  Fate  has  sent  her 
my  way.  That  is  my  siren  in  the  flesh.  Look  at  her 
mouth — it's  like  a  bleeding  wound.  Look  at  her  eyes — 
mon  Dieu,  man,  look  at  her  eyes !" 

He  was  trembling  with  suppressed  excitement.  The 
wild  dance  continued — fantastic,  untrammelled,  licen- 
tious— a  riot  of  the  baser  instincts.  And  to  Owen, 
watching,  it  seemed  that  Zelie  was  born  of  that  dance, 
that  in  her  own  person  all  its  evil  was  concentrated. 
It  was  thus  that  she  had  come  to  him — the  woman,  the 
siren,  for  whom  he  was  ready  to  barter  his  soul. 

The  music  ended  on  a  wild,  screeching  note,  and 
there  followed  a  clapping  of  hands,  a  chorus  of  cat- 
calls, discordant  shouts  and  cries.  Serpentins  were 
flung  this  way  and  that.  Owen  seized  the  rod,  which 
had  already  done  service,  and  quickly  attaching  a  red 
rose — torn,  regardless  of  protest,  from  the  corsage  of 
one  of  the  models — to  the  string,  he  flung  it  so  that  it 
hung  suspended  before  the  dancer. 

For  a  moment  she  suspected  a  trick,  and  laughingly 
put  her  hands  behind  her  back.  Then,  as  Owen, 
standing  up  in  the  box,  cried  out  to  her,  she  returned 
his  gaze,  and  her  eyes  still  held  him  as  she  took  the 
flower  from  its  string,  lifted  it  for  a  moment  to  her 
face,  and  then  ostentatiously  pressed  it  to  her  bosom. 

Her  companion  of  the  forbidding  countenance 
looked  on  and  scowled. 


CHAPTER  II 

"So  YOU  are  an  artist,  and  you  wish  me  to  sit  for  you. 
It  would  not  be  the  first  time  that  I  sit — but  now — I 
don't  know." 

Zelie  shook  her  head  dubiously.  She  was  seated  at 
a  little  table  with  Owen  Mayne,  and  a  perspiring  waiter 
had  just  set  before  them  two  tall  glasses  with  contained 
a  green  fluid. 

They  had  spent  the  best  part  of  an  hour  in  each 
other's  company,  these  two.  Owen  had  simply  carried 
her  off  from  her  surly  cavalier,  who  had  frowned,  but 
said  nothing,  though  Owen  was  quite  aware  all  the 
time  that  he  and  his  companion  had  been  shadowed  by 
an  ill-omened  figure,  watched  out  of  the  corners  of  a 
pair  of  dull,  grey  eyes. 

He  was  in  nowise  disconcerted.  He  was  not  the 
man  to  be  afraid  of  an  Apache  or  anything  else. 

Robin  had  croaked — but  then  it  was  Robin's  way  to 
croak.  "I  think  she  is  hateful,"  he  had  urged,  "the 
personification  of  all  that  is  bad.  For  Heaven's  sake, 
Owen,  leave  her  to  her  type — as  Rose  says.  They're 
well  matched." 

"I  want  a  personification  of  all  that  is  bad  for  my 
picture,"  Owen  had  retorted,  and,  after  that,  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said. 

"Why  can't  you  sit  for  me  now  ?"  urged  Owen. 

The  woman  shrugged  her  narrow  shoulders.  "He 
won't  let  me.  He  would  be  furious.  He  is  jealous — 
mon  Bibi" 

9 


10  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"Bother  Bibi,"  retorted  the  man.  "Are  you  so  fond 
of  him,  then,  Zelie?"  He  addressed  her  with  the 
second  person  of  familiarity — was  it  not  Carnival 
time? 

The  girl's  brows  narrowed  and  her  eyes  became 
slits  that  yet  shot  fire.  "He  has  struck  me — once — 
twice — many  times.  I  bear  the  mark  of  his  knife  on 
my  shoulder."  She  laughed  fiercely.  "And  he  has 
the  print  of  my  teeth  on  his  wrist !"  Her  little,  sharp 
teeth  glowed  white  as  she  spoke. 

"Why  should  you  consider  the  fellow  if  that's  the 
way  he  treats  you?"  Owen  put  the  question  half 
lazily,  for  he  knew  what  the  answer  would  be.  He  was 
studying  the  girl's  face,  gratifying  his  artistic  soul. 

"He  would  kill  me — you,  too,  perhaps.  Are  you 
afraid?"  She  peered  up  into  his  face  with  a  queer 
look  in  her  green  eyes.  Perhaps  she  was  summing 
him  up. 

Apparently  Zelie's  scrutiny  was  satisfactory  to  her. 
She  dropped  her  eyes  and  sipped  her  absinthe.  "Are 
you  afraid  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Not  I,"  he  replied  easily.  "And  as  for  danger  to 
yourself,  Zelie,  I'll  see  to  that.  Sapristi,"  he  added, 
leaning  toward  her  so  that  his  face  was  very  close  to 
the  waving,  glistening  mass  of  hair  where  it  fell  upon 
her  shoulders,  "to  think  I  have  been  looking  for  you  all 
these  months,  and  that  you  really  exist !  It's  as  if  the 
devil  had  created  you  from  the  thoughts  of  my  brain. 
Don't  you  know  that  you've  got  the  devil's  beauty?" 

She  smiled,  well  pleased.  "Well,  we  are  a  pair," 
she  said,  alluding  to  his  costume.  Presently  she  leaned 
forward,  resting  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  slim 
fingers  clasped  together  under  her  chin.  "What  is 
your  name?"  she  asked. 

"Owen  Mayne." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  11 

Her  lips  tried  to  form  the  words.  "O-en.  No,  but 
I  cannot  say  it.  I  will  just  call  you  Phisto  for  short. 
Are  you  not  Mephisto?" 

"Call  me  what  you  like,"  he  replied,  winding  a  finger 
in  a  strand  of  her  hair.  It  had  a  subtle  perfume,  her 
hair,  that  mounted  to  his  brain  and  intoxicated  him. 
"As  long  as  you  promise  to  come  to  my  studio  and  sit 
for  me,"  he  added. 

She  put  another  question.    "Are  you  rich?" 

He  laughed.  "I've  got  a  few  billets  de  mille  left," 
he  said.  "We'll  spend  them  together,  Zelie." 

Once  more  she  scrutinized  him,  and  her  eyes  soft- 
ened. "I  like  you,"  she  declared.  "You  know  what  it 
is  you  want.  You  do  not  fight  for  it  with  a  knife  and 
in  the  dark  like  Bibi — but  you  fight.  Listen,  this  I  will 
promise.  If  I  can  I  will  come  to  you — you  will  tell  me 
the  address  of  your  studio " 

"You  must  come,  Zelie,"  he  interrupted,  gripping 
her  wrist  tightly.  "You  must.  I  want  you." 

"I  will  come — if  I  can  escape  from  him — I  swear 
it." 

"To-morrow  ?" 

"Perhaps.  Yes,  perhaps  to-morrow.  And  now" — 
she  drank  off  the  absinthe  at  a  gulp — "you  must  let 
me  go.  You  must  not  speak  to  me  again  to-night.  It 
would  not  be  safe.  Especially  outside — you  understand 
that  ?  By  no  means  outside." 

She  rose  and  stretched  out  her  hand,  flashing  her 
white  teeth  at  him.  "Au  revoir,  mon  ami  le  diable." 

"A  demain,  Mme.  la  Couleuvre,"  he  retorted.  How 
the  name  suited  her !  A  snake-woman !  No  doubt  she 
had  received  the  title  because  she  was  so  lithe  and  slim 
of  body — but,  then,  she  could  wound,  too — he  was  sure 
of  that. 

She  tossed  her  hair  back  from  her  shoulders,  gath- 


12  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

ered  the  folds  of  her  black  skirt  together,  and  was  soon 
lost  in  the  crowd. 

A  little  while  later  Owen  met  his  fellow-artist  Robin 
Clithero  alone  and  a  trifle  bored.  The  two  men  left 
the  ball  together,  driving  through  the  mist  and  rain  to 
Owen's  studio  for  a  final  smoke. 

Later  still  the  Moulin  de  la  Bonne  Fortune  dis- 
gorged its  burden  of  humanity.  The  broad  boulevard 
and  the  neighbouring  narrow  streets  echoed  with 
shouts  and  laughter  as  the  motley  crew  slowly  dis- 
persed. It  was  the  morning  of  Ash  Wednesday. 

Bibi  Coupe-vide  was  in  a  bad  temper,  though  Zelie 
hung  on  his  arm  and  called  him  her  Bibi  cheri  and 
other  queer,  endearing  names  peculiar  to  her  class. 
His  language  in  return  was  of  an  order  only  to  be  un- 
derstood by  those  conversant  with  the  lowest  argot — 
which  is  a  tongue  of  its  own.  He  was  a  narrow-chested 
youth,  with  thin  yellow  hair  fringed  on  his  forehead ; 
he  had  a  receding  chin  and  little  deep-set  eyes — a  born 
hooligan — an  Apache. 

"Let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it,"  he  said  in  low, 
guttural  tones,  clenching  her  arm  to  his  side  as  in  a 
vice,  "you  are  mine,  ma  gosse,  and  if  you  give  your- 
self to  another  for  love  woe  betide  you — and  him." 

Suddenly,  with  a  quick  movement,  he  threw  back  her 
sleeve,  displaying  her  bare  white  skin  to  the  elbow. 
With  a  lean  finger  he  pointed  to  a  mark  upon  it. 
"Don't  you  dare  forget  that,"  he  muttered. 

"I  know,"  she  replied  sullenly,  with  an  effort  to 
readjust  the  sleeve  and  hide  the  blue  tattoo  mark.  "Is 
it  likely  that  I  shall  forget?" 

"A  Bibi  pour  la  vie,"  he  quoted.  "You  belong  to 
Bibi  for  life,  my  girl.  And  Bibi  Coupe-vide  will  hold 
his  own,  or "  A  string  of  vile  oaths  followed. 

Zelie's  thin  lips  formed  a  word,  but  she  did  not  give 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  13 

voice  to  it.  Instead,  and  forcing  herself  to  coaxing 
utterance — like  the  purring  of  a  cat — she  vowed  that 
Bibi  was  her  adore,  and  that  he  was  foolish  to  doubt  it. 

They  turned  into  a  badly-lit  side  street.  The  sleet 
drove  into  their  faces  and  added  to  Bibi's  evil  temper. 
Suddenly  at  the  door  of  a  wine-shop  on  the  other  side, 
and  a  little  further  on,  Zelie's  keen  eyes  espied  a  dark 
and  familiar  figure.  At  the  same  moment  it  flashed 
across  her  mind  that  they  had  passed  a  cloaked  gen- 
darme under  a  lamp-post  hardly  a  minute  ago,  and 
that  Bibi,  loud  in  his  grievances,  had  been  less  ob- 
servant than  she.  She  glanced  over  her  shoulder — yes, 
the  policeman  was  still  there. 

She  gave  her  companion's  arm  a  sharp  squeeze, 
bringing  him  to  a  halt.  Then  she  pointed  across  the 
street  to  the  wine-shop. 

"Bibi,"  she  whispered  hoarsely,  "it's  Jules — 'le  daim' 
— the  vile  scum.  Fais-lui  son  affaire.  Pay  your  debt, 
for  now's  your  chance.  He  hasn't  seen  you." 

Bibi  required  no  second  bidding.  He  had  vowed 
vengeance  upon  Jules,  as  Jules  had  vowed  it  upon  him. 
The  one  to  get  in  the  first  blow  was  the  one  to  whom 
victory  belonged. 

The  Apache  thrust  the  woman  back  and  stole  across 
the  street,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses  when 
he  reached  the  other  side.  He  was  stalking  his  prey, 
the  man  Jules,  who  was  drunk,  and  who  had  staggered 
on,  alone,  a  few  paces  beyond  the  dimly  lit  shop.  Zelie 
held  her  breath  and  watched. 

"Au  secours!"  It  was  Zelie  who  gave  the  alarm 
before  the  blow  had  time  to  fall.  Her  cry  rang  out 
shrilly.  Bibi  heard  it  and  uttered  a  savage  oath.  Jules 
heard  it  too,  and  turned — the  next  moment  he  was  de- 
fending himself  as  best  he  could  against  an  upraised 
knife. 


14  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"Help!"  The  cry  was  repeated,  bringing  up  the 
policeman  at  a  run.  Jules  sprawled  bleeding  in  the 
gutter.  Windows  were  thrown  up,  doors  flung  open. 
The  whole  street  was  in  a  turmoil.  Bibi  tried  to  run. 
but  escape  was  quickly  cut  off.  He  was  seized  by  a 
gendarme,  while  another,  who  had  by  now  appeared 
upon  the  scene,  knelt  by  the  wounded  man,  whose 
groans  and  oaths  rent  the  air. 

Zelie  had  kept  discreetly  in  the  background.  But 
Bibi  knew  that  she  had  betrayed  him,  that  his  capture 
was  due  to  her.  Struggling  with  the  policeman  who 
held  him,  he  poured  out  imprecations  upon  her  head. 

"Attends,  ma  gosse — wait  till  I  can  get  at  you — 
only  wait!  Je  t' arranger  ai  bien.  You  shall  pay  for 

this — yes,  with  your  life.  I  swear  it — I,  Bibi "  A 

string  of  foul  oaths  was  silenced  by  a  hand  pressed  over 
his  lips,  and  Bibi,  struggling  still,  was  practically  lifted 
from  the  ground  and  carried  off  by  two  sturdy  police- 
men. 

Zelie  was  at  liberty  to  keep  her  appointment  with 
Owen  Mayne. 


CHAPTER  III 

"IT'S  a  mad  project,  Owen — impossible."  The 
speaker,  Robin  Clithero,  frowned  and  stared  out  of 
the  open  window  across  the  white  road  to  the  trees 
that  marked  the  edge  of  the  forest.  They  were  now 
in  leaf,  for  April  was  already  well  advanced. 

Robin  was  at  the  little  house  near  Fontainebleau, 
where  he  had  been  settled  for  some  months,  and  he 
had  been  entertaining  two  guests  that  day — Owen 
Mayne  and  Zelie,  who  had  come  from  Paris,  ostensibly 
for  a  mere  idle  visit  of  a  few  hours,  but  in  reality  be- 
cause Owen  wished  to  make  a  proposition  to  his 
friend — a  very  remarkable  proposition  indeed,  and  one 
.which  had  startled  Robin  more  than  a  little. 

It  was  not  till  early  in  the  afternoon,  however,  that 
he  had  broached  the  subject.  They  had  lunched  at 
an  inn  in  the  forest  and  had  then  made  their  way  back 
to  the  house.  It  was  a  warm  spring  day,  and  Zelie 
was  in  the  little  garden  sunning  herself  indolently, 
leaving  the  two  men  to  smoke  and  chat  together. 

"Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  old  man,"  urged  Owen. 
"Think  it  well  over  before  you  decide.  You  see,  there's 
a  fortune  at  stake  and  we  are  jolly  hard  up,  both  of 
us.  Zelie  has  made  the  shekels  fly,  and  I  must  have 
more — for  her  sake  I  must  have  more."  He  spoke  in 
a  tone  of  infatuation  which  grated  upon  Robin's  ears. 
Closer  acquaintance  had  only  served  to  enhance  the 
dislike  which  the  latter  bore  for  the  snake-woman,  as 
he  was  pleased  to  call  Zelie. 

15 


16  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"A  hundred  thousand  pounds,  at  least,  to  divide  be- 
tween us,  Robin,  and  a  fine  estate  as  well,"  Owen  added. 
"And  it's  ours  for  the  asking.  We've  only  got  to  pick 
it  up." 

Robin  Clithero  whistled,  then  he  began  to  laugh. 
"I  like  your  way  of  putting  things,  Owen,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  seem  to  realise  that  even  a  harum-scarum 
fool  like  myself  hardly  likes  to  make  love  to  an  un- 
known young  lady — pretending  to  be  someone  else — 
personating  his  best  friend." 

"But  at  that  friend's  most  earnest  request,"  Owen 
interrupted.  He  was  sitting  easily  in  a  cane  chair 
and  he  held  in  his  hand  the  lengthy  and  carefully 
worded  epistle  which,  all  unexpectedly,  a  day  or  two 
ago,  he  had  received  from  an  aunt  of  whose  very 
existence  he  was  scarcely  aware. 

It  was  really  a  very  startling  letter.  Mrs.  Alderson, 
the  aunt  in  question,  had  written  to  say  that  after  a 
vain  search  extending  over  at  least  two  years  she  had 
at  last  succeeded  in  tracing  her  nephew  Owen,  who 
was  the  son  of  her  only  sister,  from  whom  she  had  been 
estranged  ever  since  her  own  marriage.  She  had  some 
reason  to  believe  herself  at  fault  in  the  quarrel.  So 
now  that  she  had  found  her  sister's  child  she  wished  to 
make  his  acquaintance,  more  especially  as  her  differ- 
ence with  her  sister  weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind, 
and  she  was  anxious  to  make  what  reparation  she  could 
before  she  died — an  event  which,  according  to  the  pro- 
nouncement of  the  doctor,  could  not  be  delayed  more 
than  two  or  three  months. 

Mrs.  Alderson  added  that  she  had  no  other  relation 
in  the  world.  She  had,  however,  adopted  a  sweet  and 
beautiful  girl,  named  Lavender  Percivale — of  whom 
a  photograph  was  enclosed — and  she  would  die  happy 
if  her  nephew  and  Miss  Percivale  should  meet  and  fall 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  17 

in  love  with  one  another.  Selwood  Manor,  where  she 
lived  with  her  ward,  was  a  fine  estate,  and  needed  a 
man  at  the  head  of  it.  So,  if  Owen  would  come  to 
England,  if  things  should  fall  out  according  to  her 
cherished  desires,  then  Mrs.  Alderson  would  no  longer 
feel  any  difficulty  as  to  the  disposition  of  her  property. 

The  letter  was  very  explicit ;  it  was  evidently  written 
by  a  woman  who  knew  that  her  days  in  the  land  were 
numbered  and  who  was  keenly  anxious  to  set  her  house 
in  order. 

"I  always  knew  I  had  an  aunt  somewhere  in  Eng- 
land," Owen  explained,  "for  I  can  remember  that  my 
father  used  to  speak  of  her  and  how  rich  she  was,  but 
that  I  should  never  profit  by  her  riches,  since  Aunt 
Anne  and  my  mother  had  been  at  daggers  drawn.  My 
mother  died  when  I  was  born,  you  know,  and  I 
knocked  about  the  world  with  my  father  for  years, 
and  as  I  only  came  to  Paris  after  he  went  the  way  of 
-all  flesh,  it's  not  remarkable  that  Aunt  Anne  was  not 
able  to  find  me  out.  It  seems  that  it  was  that  quaint 
person  Martyn  who  brought  my  aunt  and  me  into 
touch.  You  remember  he  was  at  the  ball  that  night  I 
first  met  Zelie.  He  has,  it  appears,  a  country  seat  near 
Selwood.  Well,  he's  certainly  done  me  a  good  turn. 
There's  a  fortune  in  it,  Robin,  if  I  can  only  work  the 
trick." 

To  Robin's  more  simple  mind  it  seemed  that  every- 
thing was  straightforward  and  that  there  was  no  diffi- 
culty in  the  way.  Owen  had  only  to  accept  his  aunt's 
invitation,  to  proceed  with  the  least  possible  delay  to 
Selwood  Manor,  and  thankfully  take  what  the  gods 
had  sent.  To  marry  a  nice  girl  and  to  win  a  fortune 
and  an  estate  at  the  same  time — why,  what  could  be 
more  desirable  than  that  ? 

But  there  was  Zelie,  and,  as  usual,  Zelie  stood  ag- 


18 

gressively  in  the  way.  In  Robin's  opinion  Zelie  had 
already  become  the  curse  of  his  friend's  life.  He  would 
have  been  the  more  sure  of  it  had  he  known  the  truth — 
that  Owen  had  been  foolish  enough  to  make  the  dan- 
cing-girl his  wife. 

But  Robin  did  not  know  this.  He  only  realised  that 
Zelie  had  squandered  Owen's  money  for  him  and  had 
done  much  towards  alienating  him  from  his  friends; 
then  there  was  always  the  danger  of  trouble  that  might 
arise  when  that  wretched  Apache  who  bore  the  nick- 
name of  Bibi  Coupe-vide  came  out  of  prison.  He  had 
been  sentenced  to  six  weeks  only,  for  his  enemy  Jules 
had  not  been  badly  hurt  after  all,  and  in  hospital  had 
soon  recovered.  Zelie  had  given  evidence  against  her 
former  friend,  and  there  had  been  a  terrible  scene  in 
court,  the  prisoner  flinging  denunciation  at  her  head 
and  vowing  vengeance  upon  her.  Bibi  was  a  dangerous 
character,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  It  would  be 
well  for  Owen  to  be  safely  out  of  the  country. 

But  Owen's  infatuation  had  increased  as  time  passed 
on.  The  girl's  very  fierceness,  her  utter  lack  of  the 
moral  sense,  her  passionate  nature,  seemed  to  enthral 
him.  Robin,  not  knowing  the  truth,  was  yet  afraid. 
He  was  keenly  anxious  to  save  his  friend  from  a 
dangerous  liaison. 

One  good  thing  Zelie  had  done,  however;  Owen, 
having  found  the  model  that  he  desired,  had  been 
induced  to  work.  He  had  finished  his  picture — the 
picture  of  a  chamois  hunter  treading  in  pursuit  of  his 
quarry  a  dangerous,  precipitous  path,  whose  steps  had 
been  arrested  by  the  apparition  at  a  turn  of  the  way 
of  that  wonderful  siren  of  the  mountain,  that  evil, 
alluring  creature,  to  the  conception  of  which  Zelie  alone 
had  been  able  to  give  expression.  It  was  an  astonish- 
ing piece  of  work,  full  of  weird  symbolism,  and  it  had 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  19 

been  accepted  for  the  Salon ;  but  at  present  it  was  still 
in  Owen's  studio  for  the  finishing  touches,  where  it 
was  to  remain  for  another  week  or  so.  All  who  had 
seen  it  declared  that  it  would  make  the  young  artist's 
name  and  set  him  on  the  high  road  to  success. 

Owen  Mayne,  however,  did  not  look  upon  his  pros- 
pects— as  far  as  accepting  his  aunt's  invitation  was 
concerned — in  the  same  light  as  Robin.  He  wanted 
the  money,  wanted  it  keenly,  but  scoffed  at  the  implied 
obligation  to  an  alliance  with  a  girl  whom  he  had  never 
seen  in  his  life  and  who,  to  judge  from  her  photograph, 
was  the  very  opposite  to  Zelie. 

Under  these  circumstances  he  had  approached 
Robin  with  the  remarkable  suggestion  that  the  latter 
should  take  his  place  and  present  himself  at  Selwood 
Manor  in  the  character  of  Mrs.  Alderson's  nephew. 

"Don't  you  see,  Robin,"  he  urged,  "there's  no  diffi- 
culty or  danger  whatever?  It  isn't  as  if  you  need 
•really  marry  the  girl  at  all.  My  aunt  can't  live  another 
three  months,  and  so  all  that  you  have  to  do  is  to  make 
yourself  very  amiable,  to  get  engaged  to  Miss  Perci- 
vale,  and  then,  after  the  old  lady  has  made  her  will  in 
her  nephew's  favour  and  peacefully  departed  this  life, 
find  some  excuse  for  breaking  off  the  marriage." 

Such  was  the  proposed  plot,  and  Owen  had  done 
his  best  to  induce  his  friend  to  accept  it;  but  Robin 
shook  his  head  with  decision.  His  "no"  was  final.  He 
would  not  be  party  to  so  mean  a  trick.  Besides,  Owen 
must  be  induced  to  accept  his  aunt's  proposal.  It 
would  be  his  salvation. 

Robin  stared  out  of  the  window,  inwardly  pronoun- 
cing a  curse  upon  Zelie.  She  was  there,  basking  in  the 
garden,  lying  her  full  length  on  the  small  grass-plot, 
letting  the  sun  pour  down  on  her,  and  she  looked  like 
a  sleek  tiger-cat;  she  appeared  to  be  bathing  herself 


20  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

in  the  hot  rays  just  as  cats  do,  stretching  out  her  lazy 
limbs  and  blinking  her  eyes,  those  hazel  eyes  that  had 
such  strange  green  lights  in  them. 

To  Robin  she  was  as  evil  and  sinister-looking  as  one 
of  Aubrey  Beardsley's  creations.  She  made  his  flesh 
creep,  and  he  could  see  no  beauty  in  her  tiny,  sharply- 
cut  face,  with  the  crimped  brown  hair  falling  in  heavy 
waves  on  each  side. 

Owen  rose  leisurely  from  his  chair  and  joined  his 
friend  by  the  window.  Here  Zelie  immediately  caught 
his  eyes. 

"Doesn't  she  look  beautiful,"  he  muttered,  "stretched 
out  on  the  turf  like  that  ?  Those  slim,  wonderful  limbs 
of  hers,  half  hidden,  half  revealed,  moulded  to  her 
gown,  her  whole  body  drinking  in  the  sun?" 

Owen  spoke  with  all  a  lover's  passion,  then  he  gave 
a  short  laugh  and  pulled  out  from  his  pocket  the  little 
carte-de-visite  photograph  which  had  been  enclosed  in 
his  aunt's  letter.  He  handed  it  to  Robin. 

"That's  the  girl's  likeness,"  he  said — "Lavender 
Percivale — Aunt  Anne's  adopted  daughter.  Can  you 
imagine  a  greater  contrast  to  Zelie  than  this  poor  little 
prim  Puritan?" 

He  smiled  contemptuously.  It  was  obvious  that  he 
saw  no  beauty  in  the  pure  oval  face,  the  soft  parted 
bands  of  hair,  and  the  sensitive  lips ;  he  missed  the  look 
of  fierce,  restless  passion  that  distinguished  Zelie. 

Robin  studied  the  photograph  carefully,  an  expres- 
sion of  infinite  tenderness  coming  into  his  eyes  as  he 
gazed  upon  it.  "How  like  she  is — how  like,"  he  sighed 
to  himself,  "it  is  as  if  Claire  lived  again !"  The  memory 
of  a  dead  and  gone  romance  had  been  aroused  in  him ; 
for  a  few  moments  he  stood  speechless,  living  in  the 
past. 

Owen  noticed  nothing — he  was  staring  at  Zelie.    "A 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  21 

poor  little  cold  thing,  isn't  she?"  he  said,  alluding  to 
the  photograph.  "Not  my  sort  at  all.  All  the  same, 
Robin,  since  you  won't  take  on  the  job,  I  must,  though 
there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  if  Zelie  gets  wind  of  it. 
She's  jealous,  you  know,  and  rather  given  to  making 
passionate  scenes.  I  like  her  for  it." 

Robin  started  and  frowned.  "You  wouldn't  be  such 
a  blackguard,  Owen  ?  It  would  be  a  cruel  thing  to  let 
the  girl  fall  in  love  with  you  unless  you  intend  to 
marry  her  in  the  end."  He  rested  his  hand  upon  his 
friend's  shoulder.  "But  you  will,  old  chap ;  it  would  be 
absurd  to  ruin  your  life  for  such  a  woman  as  Zelie. 
I've  got  to  see  that  you  don't  do  it."  Robin  could  not 
forget  his  debt  of  gratitude. 

Owen  gave  his  friend  a  sidelong  glance  and  laughed 
queerly.  "Oh,  faithful  mentor,"  he  exclaimed,  "guard- 
ian of  my  morals  !  So  you  would  steer  me  into  the  safe 
haven  of  matrimony  with  the  little  Puritan!  Well, 
'well — so  be  it.  Beggars  can't  afford  to  be  choosers, 
and  money  I  must  have."  He  did  not  say  so,  but  it 
was  of  Zelie  he  was  thinking,  it  was  for  her  he  needed 
his  aunt's  fortune.  "And  I  tell  you  what,  Rob,"  he 
added,  "you  shall  come  to  England  with  me — see  me 
through  a  difficult  job.  I  can  easily  write  and  say  I  am 
bringing  my  best  friend,  a  fellow  artist."  It  had  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Robin's  company  might  be  of  service 
if  there  was  trouble  with  Zelie  later  on — it  would  not 
be  hard  to  make  his  friend  the  scapegoat. 

Robin's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  photograph,  which 
he  held  in  his  hand.  He  was  about  to  reply,  but 
checked  himself  abruptly,  for  Zelie  had  risen  and  was 
walking  towards  the  window,  her  small,  cruel-looking 
face  thrust  forward,  her  white,  slim  hands  making 
swift  darts  at  the  butterflies  that  flew  about — butterflies 
all  blue  and  white. 


22  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  you  two?"  she  de- 
manded curiously,  half  closing-  her  eyes.  Her  tight  cot- 
ton gown  hung  closely  about  her  limbs,  and  her  dress 
was  open  at  the  throat ;  there  was  a  bizarre  fascination 
about  her  thin,  peaked  face. 

"We  were  discussing  a  possible  run  over  to  England 
for  a  week  or  so,"  Owen  replied  lightly.  "Robin  has 
just  suggested  it.  He  thinks  he  would  like  to  see  his 
native  land  again,  and  I've  got  some  relatives  in  Eng- 
land, you  know " 

Zelie  glanced  at  him  keenly — somewhat  suspiciously. 

"Well,  you  can  go  if  you  want  to,"  she  answered. 
Then  she  made  a  swift  movement  of  her  hand  and 
caught  at  the  photograph  that  Robin  was  still  holding. 

"Mon  Dieu,  who  is  this?"  she  demanded.  "I  do 
not  know  her — she  is  like  a  little  wax  saint." 

Her  eyes  flashed  dangerously,  and  she  turned  on 
Owen.  "Do  you  know  this  girl  ?"  she  inquired,  "or  does 
Robin?" 

Owen  laughed  uneasily,  the  blood  mounting  to  his 
forehead.  But  before  he  could  speak  Robin  had  re- 
gained possession  of  the  photograph,  claiming  it  as 
his  own  and  making  some  laughing  remark  which  suc- 
cessfully averted  the  girl's  suspicions.  It  would  not  do 
to  arouse  Zelie's  jealousy  yet — not  till  Owen  was  safe 
in  England  and  out  of  the  way  of  temptation — not  till 
everything  was  settled. 

When  they  parted  late  that  afternoon  all  the  details 
of  the  visit  to  England  had  been  arranged.  Zelie  was 
to  stay  with  a  married  friend  at  Versailles.  She  offered 
but  little  opposition,  and  it  struck  Robin  that  the  pros- 
pect of  a  week  or  so  of  freedom  was  not  distasteful  to 
her. 

"You'll  play  fair,  Owen  ?"  Robin  gripped  his  friend's 
hand  tightly  as  he  bade  him  good-bye.  "This  girl — 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  23 

Miss  Percivale — is  sweet  and  pure — you  can  tell  it 
from  her  likeness.  It  would  be  a  sin  to  hurt  her." 

And  Owen,  married  man  though  he  was,  gave  the 
required  assurance,  gave  it  with  that  easy  charm  of 
manner  that  distinguished  him.  "You'll  be  with  me 
to  see  all's  fair,"  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

When  his  visitors  had  departed  Robin  Clithero  took 
the  photograph  of  Lavender  Percivale  and  laid  it  on 
a  table  by  the  side  of  another  photograph,  one  that 
was  faded  and  yellow.  He  sat,  gazing  from  one  to  the 
other,  till  the  room  was  in  darkness.  There  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Zelie  was  in  Paris  once  more.  She 
had  soon  tired  of  the  humdrum  provincial  life  with  her 
friend,  Berthe  Lecomte,  late  of  the  "Parnasse  Cafe 
Chantant,"  but  now  respectably  married  and  with  no 
higher  ambition  than  the  welfare  of  her  common-place 
husband  and  her  two  fine,  healthy  babies.  It  was 
deadly  dull  at  Versailles,  and  Zelie  was  one  of  those 
who  crave  for  constant  excitement. 

It  was  as  the  breath  of  her  life  to  her.  Ever  since 
she  could  remember,  she  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of 
stress  and  storm,  buffeted  by  breakers  over  which  she 
had  nevertheless  ridden,  laughing  and  mocking  at  their 
efforts  to  engulf  her.  Owen  had  imagined  another 
picture  for  her;  she  should  be  sitting  astride  a  piece 
of  wreckage  tossed  on  an  angry  sea — a  white,  defiant 
nymph  of  the  depth  with  arms  outstretched  and  a  trail 
of  black  hair  floating  behind  her.  There  should  be  dead 
men's  faces  in  the  water,  too,  drift  and  jetsam,  a  dark 
sky  and  the  streak  of  lightning.  But  the  nymph  should 
be  laughing — laughing  as  Zelie  laughed. 

Just  now,  however,  Zelie  was  more  than  ever  in  a 
condition  of  unrest.  Until  her  meeting  with  Owen  she 
had  imagined  no  existence  for  herself  outside  her  own 
narrow,  if  tempestuous  sphere.  Her  intelligence  was 
limited  by  the  cafe,  the  brasserie,  the  slum,  and  the 
gutter.  She  did  not  understand  the  art  that  inspired 
her  to  dance.  She  had  herded  with  the  lowest  of  the 
low — was  of  them,  queen  of  the  Apaches.  All  her 

24 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  25 

instincts  were  animal  and  primitive.  But  now,  since 
her  marriage,  she  was  beginning  to  open  eyes  of 
intelligence. 

To  begin  with,  Owen  had  compelled  her  to  give  up 
dancing  in  public,  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  had  weaned 
her  from  the  low  haunts  that  she  would  still  willingly 
have  frequented.  There  was  an  easy  excuse  for  this — 
Bibi's  friends  might  be  on  the  look-out  for  Zelie  and 
constitute  themselves  a  danger. 

Instead,  Owen  had  taken  her  to  smart  restaurants, 
he  had  driven  with  her  in  the  Bois,  he  had  shown  him- 
self with  her  in  the  stalls  of  theatres  on  first  nights 
when  tout  Paris  was  gathered  together.  She  had 
aroused  some  attention  by  her  bizarre  appearance — at 
once  attractive  and  repellent — her  thin  pixyish  face  and 
her  lithe  figure  which  she  had  the  instinctive  talent  of 
draping  to  the  best  advantage.  Zelie  had  felt  herself 
marked  out  for  observation  and  had  taken  pleasure  in 
the  fact.  So  she  was  absorbing  knowledge,  learning 
her  strength,  realising  the  dominion  that  women  may 
hold  over  men — she  who  had  been  content  to  yield  her- 
self to  the  whims  of  a  Bibi  Coupe-vide  and  had 
imagined  that  this  was  all  in  the  ordained  order  of 
things ! 

It  was  Owen  who  had  insisted  upon  their  marriage. 
The  proposal  had  seemed  absurd  to  her,  and  she  had 
scoffed  at  it.  But  Owen  was  determined.  He  believed 
that  by  marriage  alone  could  he  make  this  fierce,  un- 
tamed creature,  who  had  fascinated  him  so  strangely, 
really  his  own.  Until  the  ceremony  had  been  per- 
formed he  was  in  constant  dread  lest  she  should  weary 
and  take  herself  out  of  his  life  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
come  into  it — and  this,  perhaps,  even  before  he  had 
transferred  her  likeness  to  the  canvas  upon  which  now 
he  set  such  store.  For  his  picture,  "The  Chamois 


26  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Hunter,"  had  come  to  mean  much  to  him.  He  saw  for 
himself  that  it  was  a  masterpiece. 

It  was  upon  the  picture  that  he  relied  for  funds 
when  the  remains  of  his  meagre  patrimony  had  been 
expended.  But  the  money  had  flown  quicker  than 
even  he  had  anticipated.  The  situation  threatened  to 
grow  acute  when  that  strange  letter,  with  its  stranger 
proposal,  from  his  aunt  in  England  reached  him. 
When,  in  company  with  Robin,  he  left  Paris  for  Sel- 
wood  Manor,  he  had  handed  over  to  Zelie  practically 
all  that  remained  to  him.  It  seemed  quite  a  large  sum 
to  the  girl,  and  she  accepted  it  joyfully  enough. 

She  had  been  given  an  address  in  London  to  which 
to  write,  but  Zeiie  was  too  illiterate  to  care  to  put 
pen  to  paper  without  special  need.  Owen,  however, 
had  written  three  or  four  times,  wild  passionate  letters 
in  each  of  which  he  proclaimed  his  anxiety  to  return 
to  Paris,  though  he  gave  no  hint  of  when  that  return 
might  be ;  also  he  vouchsafed  no  information  as  to  his 
doings  in  England. 

Zelie  was  of  a  fiercely  jealous  disposition.  It  was  in 
her  blood — blood  that  had  in  it  some  remote  touch  of 
the  gipsy,  Paris  gutter-born  as  she  was.  Utterly  with- 
out morals,  she  yet  had  the  instinct  to  strike  if  she  felt 
that  her  lover's  affections  were  being  alienated  from 
herself.  In  her  heart  she  did  not  blame  Bibi  Coupe- 
vide  because  he  had  vowed  to  kill  her — it  was  nature, 
as  she  understood  it. 

It  was  partly  jealousy  which  had  brought  her  from 
Versailles  to  Paris.  She  was  more  than  a  little  sus- 
picious of  what  this  journey  to  England  might  mean. 
Owen  and  Robin  had  spoken  so  mysteriously  together 
— in  English,  of  which  Zelie  hardly  understood  a  word. 
There  was  that  photograph,  too — she  was  not  at  all 
sure  that  it  really  belonged  to  Robin.  He  may  have 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  27 

lied  about  it — Zelie  always  lied  herself  when  she  deemed 
it  to  her  interest.  Could  it  be  that  Owen  meant  to 
desert  her  now  that  the  picture  was  finished — to  desert 
her  after  forcing  her  to  give  up  her  means  of  regular 
livelihood?  Dared  he  do  so?  She  set  her  little  white 
sharp  teeth.  Dared  he? 

And  so  it  was  that  jealousy — as  well  as  the  desire 
for  a  few  days'  freedom — brought  her  one  afternoon 
to  Owen's  studio  in  the  Rue  Voltaire,  the  studio  which 
adjoined  his  tastefully  furnished,  if  small,  appartement. 
The  concierge,  a  garrulous  old  fellow,  particularly 
proud  of  his  knowledge  of  English,  was  glad  to  see 
her  and  conducted  her  upstairs. 

"And  monsieur,"  he  remarked,  when,  at  Zelie's  in- 
vitation, he  had  followed  her  into  the  little  salon  which 
opened  directly  upon  the  studio,  "when  does  madame 
expect  that  monsieur  will  return?" 

Zelie  shook  her  head  impatiently.  She  didn't  know. 
She  had  come,  she  explained,  to  look  for  a  letter  which 
her  husband  had  left  in  his  escritoire. 

This  was,  in  fact,  the  object  of  her  visit.  She  had 
noticed  on  the  evening  before  Owen's  departure  that 
he  had  hastily  thrust  some  papers  away  in  a  drawer 
and  had  refused  to  give  her  any  explanation  of  them. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  look  into  the  matter, 
and  she  had  invited  M.  Blaize,  the  concierge,  to  accom- 
pany her  in  case  his  knowledge  of  English  might  be 
requisitioned.  She  had  no  sense  of  pride  whatever. 

Blaize  continued  to  chatter  while  Zelie  opened  the 
escritoire  with  one  of  her  own  keys — she  had  already 
discovered  that  it  would  fit.  The  men  would  be  coming 
in  the  next  day,  he  announced,  to  remove  the  famous 
picture  to  the  Salon.  Did  madame  know  that  mon- 
sieur had  already  found  a  purchaser?  So,  at  least, 


28  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Blaize  had  heard.  A  large  sum,  too — Blaize  swelled 
with  the  pride  of  reflected  glory. 

"Read  this  to  me,  M.  Blaize."  Zelie  cut  short  the 
worthy  man's  harangue  by  handing  him  a  letter  writ- 
ten on  thin  paper.  "It  is  in  English ;  translate  it." 

Blaize  adjusted  his  spectacle:,  and  moved  to  the  light 
of  the  window.  Then,  not  without  difficulty,  he  spelt 
out  the  letter,  while  Zelie  stood,  palpitating  with  ex- 
citement, by  his  side. 

Her  fears  were  realised.  It  was  not  long  before  that 
fact  was  abundantly  clear.  The  letter  was  one  written 
by  Owen's  aunt  in  response  to  that  in  which  he  had 
announced  his  acceptance  of  her  proposal  and  his  al- 
most immediate  arrival  at  Selwood  Manor  with  his 
friend  Robin  Clithero. 

"You  shall  receive  a  warm  welcome,  Nephew 
Owen,"  the  old  lady  had  written,  "both  from  me  and 
from  Lavender,  and  I  only  live  now  in  the  hope  that 
you  and  she  may  love  each  other — love  and  marry." 

Zelie  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  snatched  the 
letter  from  the  hand  of  the  astonished  concierge  and 
gave  free  vent  to  an  outburst  of  uncontrollable  pas- 
sion. As  Bibi  Coupe-vide  had  threatened  her,  so  now 
she  hurled  menaces  at  Owen's  head.  Her  language 
was  as  vile,  as  lurid,  as  that  of  which  the  Apache  had 
made  use.  She  was  transformed  all  at  once  into  a 
fury,  the  humanity  in  her  absorbed  by  the  sheerly 
animal. 

"//  me  lache,  le  gredin"  she  gasped,  as  the  horrified 
Blaize,  after  a  vain  effort  to  appease  her,  backed  out 
of  the  room.  "He  means  to  desert  me — to  marry  an 
English  girl.  Ah — ah,  it  was  she  of  the  photograph — 
I  guessed  it  from  the  first.  A  pink-and-white  faced 
doll!  But  wait,  my  friend,  wait.  You  are  reckoning 
without  Zelie." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  29 

The  spirit  of  destruction  was  upon  her.  She  seized 
a  fine  Chinese  vase  that  stood  upon  a  pedestal  close 
at  hand  and  hurled  it  to  the  floor.  "But  wait,"  she 
repeated,  fiercely,  "only  wait,  my  good  Owen.  Eng- 
land is  not  far  away.  I  can  follow  you — yes,  I,  Zelie. 
To-morrow  I  go  to  find  you.  And  to-morrow — prends 
garde — see  to  yourself." 

She  stood  a  moment  erect,  her  hand  clenched  as 
though,  indeed,  her  fingers  held  a  dagger.  "To-mor- 
row," she  repeated  slowly.  "I  am  not  of  those  whom 
one  deserts.  You  shall  learn  it,  M.  mon  man.  See  to 
yourself,  for  you  will  have  need." 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  was  no  suggestion  of  tears  in  Zelie's  eyes  as 
she  paraded  the  length  of  the  little  salon  with  the 
threatening  stride  of  a  caged  beast. 

She  thrust  aside  anything  that  intruded  itself  in  her 
way.  A  little  table,  set  out  with  fragile  ornaments, 
soon  followed  the  way  of  the  vase;  she  trod  broken 
fragments  of  glass  and  china  under  her  feet;  she  had 
the  desire,  in  her  mood  of  wild  destruction  to  break, 
tear,  or  crush  everything  that  came  within  the  reach 
of  her  cruel  white  hands.  Did  they  not  belong  to  him, 
these  things? 

Suddenly  she  paused.  The  door  of  the  studio, 
draped  by  a  crimson  Eastern  curtain,  stood  partially 
open,  and,  through  it,  she  had  just  caught  sight  of  the 
picture  upon  its  easel — the  picture  which  was  to  make 
Owen  Mayne's  name  and  fortune.  To-morrow  it 
would  be  packed  up  and  transferred  to  the  Salon — had 
not  Blaize  said  so?  The  woman's  scarlet  lips  parted 
in  a  vicious,  menacing  smile  as  a  thought  flashed 
through  her  brain.  Ah,  it  was  well  that  she  had  come 
to-day  ? 

Revenge!  Why,  she  need  not  even  wait  till  to-mor- 
row to  begin  her  revenge.  It  was  in  her  power  to 
strike  a  blow  at  once — here  and  now! 

She  tore  the  curtain  aside,  digging  her  fingers,  with 
their  pointed  nails,  ruthlessly  into  its  delicate  fabric, 
and  flung  into  the  studio. 

It  was  in  semi-obscurity,  for  the  red  blind  was 
30 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  31 

drawn  over  the  broad  sloping  skylight.  Zelie  went 
straight  to  this  and  attempted  to  manipulate  the  cord, 
but  failed  to  do  so,  and  very  soon  abandoned  the  ef- 
fort. It  did  not  matter:  there  was  light  enough  for 
her  purpose.  Besides,  the  gloom  was  red-tinted,  and 
it  accorded  with  her  mood. 

She  stepped  up  to  the  picture — the  picture — which, 
covered  with  a  cloth,  stood  upon  its  easel  close  to  the 
little  platform  where  she  had  been  wont  to  pose.  There 
was  a  chair  upon  the  platform,  over  the  back  of  which 
hung  a  skirt  and  bodice;  they  belonged  to  her,  and 
she  remembered  that  she  had  not  troubled  to  put  them 
away.  In  the  half-darkness  they  appeared  huge  and 
grotesque,  like  a  doubled-up  and  headless  figure. 

Zelie  tore  the  cloth  from  the  picture,  stood  a  moment 
gazing  at  it,  her  teeth  clenched,  then  drew  up  a  high 
Moorish  stool,  and  was  about  to  seat  herself  when  she 
noticed  that  Owen  had  left  one  of  his  pipes  lying  upon 
it.  He  was  as  careless  of  his  belongings  as  she.  Zelie 
muttered  an  ugly  word,  and  swept  the  pipe  to  the 
floor. 

Then,  perched  upon  the  stool,  she  resumed  her  ex- 
amination of  the  picture.  Her  eyes  glowed  opalescent 
as  she  realised  that  here  before  her,  at  her  mercy,  was 
the  work  that  Owen  prized  so  highly,  the  work  into 
which  he  had  painted  so  much  of  himself — the  child  of 
his  brain. 

She  could  see  it  quite  distinctly  now,  her  eyes  accus- 
timed  to  the  gloom.  There  sat  the  siren — herself — 
upon  a  narrow  ledge  of  rock,  white  against  the  lower- 
ing blackness  of  the  crags,  her  legs  hanging  over  the 
precipice,  her  shapely  arms  entwined  in  the  rich  masses 
of  black  hair,  from  out  of  which  peered  the  little,  cruel 
face,  so  evil,  and  yet  so  alluring. 

The  siren's  eyes  were  turned  up  to  the  Chamois 


32  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

Hunter,  whose  path  she  barred.  He  was  a  strong, 
broad-shouldered  fellow,  clad  in  typical  costume.  The 
expression  upon  his  good-natured  face  was  one  of  sur- 
prise and  wonder.  Here,  amid  mountain  fastnesses, 
at  a  bend  of  the  way,  he  had  encountered  this  mar- 
vellously white  and  tempting  vision;  his  quarry  had 
escaped  him;  the  chamois  could  be  dimly  seen  about 
to  leap  from  a  craggy  height  in  the  far  background — 
but  he  no  longer  thought  of  the  chamois. 

Zelie  had  never  read  into  the  picture  any  more  than 
she  could  actually  see.  It  had  no  inner  meaning  for 
her.  But  now,  as  she  gazed,  some  dim  perception  of 
the  metaphor  filtered  into  her  brain.  That  siren  was 
herself — woman  exemplified  by  her — and  it  was  in  her 
power — as  with  the  spirit  in  the  picture — to  lure  man 
from  his  aims  and  ambitions,  and  to  bring  him  to  his 
knees  before  her.  For  her  sake — at  her  bidding — he 
would  throw  himself  into  the  gulf  that  yawned  at  his 
feet — shatter  himself  upon  the  stones  over  which  she 
could  float  unharmed. 

These  things  Zelie  realised  faintly,  but  she  gave  her- 
self no  time  to  consider  them.  All  she  cared  about 
now  was  that  this  was  Owen's  work,  and  that  upon  it 
he  fastened  his  future  hopes.  Had  he  himself  not  told 
her  so? 

Well,  there  should,  at  least,  be  an  end  to  these  hopes. 
Of  so  much  she  could  be  assured.  Zelie  rose  from  her 
stool  and  crossed  the  studio  to  a  little  cabinet  where 
she  knew  that  Owen  kept  all  manner  of  articles  which 
might  come  in  useful  for  his  painting;  among  them 
she  had  often  noticed  a  fine,  sharp  knife  of  Spanish 
make,  with  a  silver  scabbard — this  would  serve  her 
purpose  excellently  well. 

Armed  with  the  knife,  she  returned  to  the  picture. 
Without  another  moment  of  hesitation  she  struck 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  33 

straight  at  the  heart  of  the  Chamois  Hunter.  There 
was  a  vague  idea  at  the  back  of  her  brain  that  Owen 
had  represented  himself  in  this  figure.  The  knife 
pierced  the  canvas,  and  Zelie  gave  utterance  to  a  low 
snarl — almost  like  that  of  a  wild  beast — as  she  felt  the 
blade  sink  in. 

Then,  yielding  once  more  to  the  frenzy  of  her  pas- 
sion, she  struck  out  right  and  left,  rending  the  picture 
into  strips,  destroying  in  a  minute  of  time  the  work 
which,  fruit  of  inspiration  as  it  was,  could  never  be 
restored. 

"This  for  you,  Owen  Mayne — ami  Phisto — Monsieur 
my  husband!"  she  cried,  as  she  seized  the  rent  edges 
of  the  canvas  and  tore  them  still  further  asunder  with 
her  fingers.  "You  have  not  done  with  Zelie  yet.  You 
won  her  love,  and  now  you  shall  know  that  she  can 
hate  as  well.  Does  it  hurt  that  I  have  torn  your 
.picture?  Ah,  but  it  is  nothing — nothing  to  the  pain 
you  shall  bear!" 

Zelie  was  about  to  throw  the  knife  carelessly  aside, 
then  she  paused  and  thrust  it  into  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  There  was  a  little  red  paint,  she  noticed,  upon 
the  scabbard,  and  it  looked  like  blood. 

She  had  grown  calmer  now.  She  remained  a  short 
while  longer,  hovering  about  the  studio  and  the  other 
rooms  of  the  appartement,  picking  up  anything  of 
value  that  she  could  find  and  that  could  easily  be 
packed  into  a  little  hand-bag;  then  she  carefully  shut 
the  door  behind  her  and  made  her  way  downstairs. 

M.  Blaize  was  in  his  office  by  the  hall  door,  and  he 
poked  his  head  out  when  she  appeared. 

"You  are  going,  Madame  Zelie?" 

She  turned  her  head  as  she  slipped  through  the  small 
aperture  in  the  great  wooden  door,  the  door  that 
opened  upon  a  paved  court.  "When  the  men  come  for 


34  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

M.  Mayne's  picture  to-morrow,  bid  them  take  great 
care,  M.  Blaize,"  she  said  suavely.  "I  should  grieve 
if  any  harm  befell  it." 

The  concierge  nodded.  He  watched  the  slim  figure 
as  it  receded  leisurely  down  the  street. 

Zelie  had  not  disappeared  many  minutes  when 
Blaize,  still  standing  by  the  door,  was  accosted  by  a 
young  man  of  distinctly  unprepossessing  appearance. 
He  wore  a  red  muffler  loosely  knotted  about  his  throat, 
and  his  peaked  cap  was  drawn  low  over  his  eyes. 

"M.  Mayne — the  artist — does  he  live  here  ?" 

Blaize  hesitated  before  he  replied.  He  did  not  like 
the  stranger's  manner  of  speech.  However,  it  was  the 
concierge's  duty  to  give  information — discreetly. 

"M.  Mayne  is  not  now  in  Paris.    He  is  in  England." 

"Ah !"  The  fellow  nonchalantly  kicked  at  the  kerb. 
"And  Mile.  Zelie — a  friend  of  M.  Mayne.  You  know 
her?" 

Blaize  had  not  been  without  experience  of  the  type 
of  man  with  whom  he  was  speaking.  He  had  been 
brought  into  unpleasing  relations  with  other  Apaches. 
Furthermore,  nature  had  not  endowed  him  with  the 
quality  of  courage.  He  had  an  overwhelming  desire, 
therefore,  to  bring  the  conversation  to  an  end  as 
speedily  as  possible. 

"Mile.  Zelie  is  not  in  Paris,  either." 

"She,  too,  is  in  England?" 

"Yes."  It  was  the  quickest  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. 

"Give  me  the  address."  The  words  were  practically 
a  command. 

Blaize  spread  out  his  fleshy  hands  helplessly.  "I 
don't  know  it — I  give  you  my  word." 

The  Apache  drew  a  step  nearer.  There  was  menace 
in  his  tone.  "That's  a  lie.  You  must  have  an  address 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  35 

for  forwarding  letters.  Give  it  to  me.  Write  it 
down." 

Blaize  was  too  timorous  to  resist.  He  remembered 
that  former  occasion.  There  had  been  murder  done 
then.  It  was  another  concierge — a  friend  of  his  own. 
With  a  shaking  hand  he  took  a  scrap  of  paper  and  a 
pencil  and  wrote:  "The  Delphic  Club,  London."  It 
was  the  only  address  that  Owen  had  given  him. 

Bibi  Coupe-vide — free  once  more — snatched  the 
paper  from  the  concierge's  hand,  and,  after  glancing  at 
it,  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  Then  with  a  muttered 
"Merci!"  and  a  surly  nod  he  lounged  away. 

Over  a  glass  of  absinthe  at  a  neighbouring  cafe  he 
scrutinised  the  writing  again.  "London,"  he  muttered 
to  himself.  "Well,  there's  Alphonse  Lereux  settled 
comfortably  in  London.  Alphonse  will  be  delighted 
to  see  his  old  friend  Bibi,  and  he's  been  making  his 
fortune,  they  say."  There  was  an  evil  smile  on  the 
man's  lips  as  the  thought  flashed  through  his  brain. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  emptying  his  glass  at  a  gulp. 
"Paris  isn't  healthy  for  Bibi  just  now.  There  are  too 
many  of  Jules's  friends  about — to  say  nothing  of  Jules 
himself.  A  change  of  scene  is  what's  wanted.  To 
London  be  it — and  look  to  yourself,  Zelie,  my  dear — 
when  I  find  you !" 


CHAPTER  VI 

ZELIE  left  Paris  upon  the  following  day,  taking  the 
train  for  Calais  and  London,  and,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  turning  her  back  upon  her  native  country. 

Her  first  intention  had  been  to  travel  the  same  night 
— at  once — but  it  had  been  necessary  for  her  to  return 
to  Versailles  in  order  to  get  Owen's  letters.  She  was 
not  certain  if  he  was  in  London  or  at  the  house  of  his 
aunt  in  the  country — he  had  certainly  spoken  of  the 
country,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  believed  that  he 
had  written  from  London;  at  least  it  was  certainly  a 
London  address  with  which  he  headed  his  letters.  She 
verified  this  later  as  the  Delphic  Club — which  meant 
very  little  to  her,  and  did  not  strike  her  as  insufficient. 

There  was  no  address  at  all  upon  the  letter  which 
she  had  carried  off  from  the  studio;  it  had  been  torn 
off,  evidently  by  the  young  man  himself. 

She  wanted  money,  too,  and  to  pack  up  her  clothes 
and  other  necessities  of  travel.  She  had  no  intention 
of  undertaking  a  journey  without  providing  for  her 
personal  comfort.  All  of  which  rendered  the  delay 
necessary,  a  delay  which,  though  she  was  blissfully  un- 
conscious of  the  fact,  saved  her  from  a  very  unpleasant 
meeting — for  Bibi  Coupe-vide  only  preceded  her  across 
the  Channel  by  a  few  hours.  Bibi,  however,  was  very 
far  from  Zelie's  thoughts  just  then.  She  had  not  even 
realised  that  he  had  come  out  of  prison. 

Zelie  found,  on  reaching  Versailles,  that  Berthe  Le- 
comte  and  her  husband  were  away  from  home.  This 

36 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  37 

did  not  matter  much.  Zelie  packed  her  things,  taking 
all  the  money  she  had,  and  returned  to  Paris,  putting 
up  at  a  small  and,  truth  to  tell,  rather  disreputable 
hotel  near  the  Gare  du  Nord,  the  proprietress  of  which 
was  an  acquaintance  of  hers. 

The  journey  was  comparatively  uneventful.  Cer- 
tainly there  was  something  of  a  scene  at  Cannon  Street 
when  Zelie,  imagining  that  she  had  arrived  at  her  des- 
tination, had  got  out  on  the  platform  with  her  belong- 
ings and  had  only  realised  her  mistake  just  as  the  train 
was  about  to  start  once  more.  She  had  been  bundled 
back  breathless  into  the  carriage,  and  had  sunk  down 
upon  the  seat  muttering  imprecations,  in  the  coarsest 
Montmartre  slang,  upon  everything  that  was  foreign 
and  English. 

There  was  a  respectable  British  matron,  with  an 
insipid-looking  daughter,  travelling  in  the  same  com- 
partment, and  they  had  cast  horrified  eyes  upon  her, 
guessing  instinctively  that  her  remarks  were  not  good 
to  hear ;  it  was,  indeed,  lucky  for  them  that  they  could 
not  understand. 

They  had  left  the  train  at  Waterloo,  and  Zelie  was 
alone  when  she  reached  Charing  Cross.  She  stared 
up  and  down  the  long  platform,  and  realised  nothing 
but  bustle  and  confusion,  all  seen  dimly  through  a  haze 
of  fog  which  had  penetrated  the  station. 

"Is  this  London?"  She  ventured  to  ask  at  last  of 
a  red-bearded  porter,  who  stared  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  grasping  the  significance  of  the  question,  re- 
sponded gruffly:  "Yes,  miss,  this  is  London,  Charing 
Cross.  You  get  out  here.  Tout-le-monde-descend." 
He  spoke  the  words  slowly  and  with  emphasis,  proud 
of  his  knowledge  of  the  French  language.  "Shall  I 
take  your  luggage,  miss?  Where  are  you  going  to?" 

Zelie  had  not  the  remotest  idea.    She  had  not  given 


38  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

the  matter  a  thought.  She  was  utterly  unaccustomed 
to  travelling,  had  never  been  more  than  fifty  miles 
away  from  Paris  in  her  life.  And  now  she  was  far  too 
dazed  to  give  any  serious  consideration  to  the  question. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  porter  had  seized  her  hand- 
bag, and  was  apparently  making  off  with  it.  Zelie  fol- 
lowed him  along  the  platform,  protesting  loudly. 
Luckily,  at  that  moment  help  appeared  in  the  shape  of 
a  liveried  interpreter,  who  quietly  took  the  case  in  hand. 
With  his  assistance  Zelie  was  initiated  into  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Custom  House,  her  luggage  was  passed 
and  finally  taken  charge  of  by  a  porter  from  a  neigh- 
bouring hotel,  Zelie  having  explained  that  she  had  no 
choice  in  the  matter,  and  did  not  mind  where  she  put 
up  for  the  night. 

She  was  allotted  a  room  upon  the  first  floor,  but  in 
a  far  corner.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  walked  down 
interminable  passages  and  corridors  to  reach  it.  She 
had  never  before  been  in  a  large  and  important  hotel. 
The  bustle  and  movement  confused  her — made  her 
head  swim. 

She  was  most  utterly  out  of  her  element  and  vaguely 
realised  the  fact.  As  was  usual  with  her,  she  had 
acted  wholly  upon  impulse,  and  had  no  definite  plan 
whatever  in  her  mind.  She  had  vowed  to  find  Owen. 
In  many  ways — in  her  ignorance  and  lack  of  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  outside  her  own  sphere — she  was 
like  a  child.  She  was  only  old  in  vice. 

After  an  hour's  rest,  however,  she  felt  refreshed  and 
her  spirits  revived.  She  changed  her  dress,  selecting 
a  walking  frock  of  grey,  which  suited  her  and  which 
Owen  had  always  admired.  She  paid  a  good  deal  of 
attention  to  her  hair,  fluffing  it  up  over  her  ears  in 
the  way  that  he  liked  to  see  it,  and  her  hat  was  one 
which  he  himself  had  selected  for  her. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  39 

Owen,  who  had  an  artistic  eye  for  what  was  correct 
and  appropriate  in  a  woman's  dress,  had  been  instru- 
mental in  training  her  against  the  exaggeration  which 
she  might  otherwise  have  affected.  His  love  of  the 
outre  had  prevented  him  from  attempting  to  refine  her 
in  other  ways,  but,  as  far  as  appearance  went,  Zelie 
could  hold  her  own. 

Never  in  her  life,  she  told  herself,  had  she  felt  so 
utterly  alone  as  now.  It  was  this  that  kept  the  fire  of 
her  rage  against  Owen  aflame.  She  stared  out  of 
window  at  a  narrow,  dismal  street  with  a  strip  of 
leaden  sky  showing  dimly  through  the  mist,  and  her 
heart  yearned  for  the  lights  and  the  laughter  of  her 
beloved  cafes.  She  craved  for  absinthe,  too. 

But  she  had  her  work  to  do — whatever  it  might 
prove  to  be — and  so,  with  a  grim  smile  playing  upon 
her  red  lips,  she  once  more  secreted  about  her  person 
,the  silver-mounted  dagger,  and  made  her  way,  not 
without  difficulty,  downstairs  to  the  hall.  Here  there 
was  the  bustle  of  a  recently  arrived  train,  and  Zelie  was 
thrust  that  way  and  this  before  she  ventured  to  make 
an  inquiry  at  the  office,  where  there  was  a  young  lady 
who  spoke  French. 

She  asked  how  she  could  best  reach  the  Delphic 
Club,  and  was  advised,  since  she  spoke  no  English,  to 
take  a  taxi-cab. 

It  was  only  a  short  drive,  but  Zelie,  gazing  out  of 
window,  found  little  to  admire  in  what  she  saw.  Where 
were  the  cafes,  with  their  brilliantly  lighted  windows, 
their  rows  of  little  tables,  their  crowds  of  absinthe  and 
beer  drinking  customers?  Everyone  seemed  busy  and 
in  a  hurry,  even  at  this  hour  of  the  evening.  She 
imagined  that  the  Strand  must  be  a  quite  unimportant 
thoroughfare.  And  she  felt  lonely,  terribly  lonely. 

She  had  but  little  time  for  reflection,  however,  for 


40  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

very  shortly  the  taxi-cab  turned  into  a  quieter  street 
and  drew  up  at  a  lighted  doorway. 

Zelie  descended  from  the  cab  and  walked  boldly  in. 
There  were  several  men  in  the  hall,  who  stared  dis- 
creetly at  this  feminine  apparition,  but  Zelie,  holding 
her  head  high,  addressed  herself  without  hesitation  to 
the  hall  porter. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Owen  Mayne." 

She  spoke  in  French,  and  the  porter  stared,  failing 
to  grasp  her  meaning.  This  was  a  kind  of  visitor  to 
whom  he  was  unaccustomed.  Zelie  repeated  her  re- 
quest in  a  slightly  louder  tone. 

Luckily  she  found  an  interpreter  in  the  person  of  a 
good-looking  young  man  with  closely-cut  fair  hair  and 
clean-shaven  face.  He  wore  evening  dress. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service?"  he  inquired,  addressing 
her  in  her  own  language.  "I'm  afraid  the  porter  does 
not  understand  you." 

Zelie  was  grateful.  "I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Owen  Mayne," 
she  repeated  for  the  third  time.  This  is  the  address 
which  he  gave  me — the  Delphic  Club." 

She  spoke  the  words  with  a  queer  little  lisp,  and  the 
Englishman  raised  his  eyebrows  with  a  semi-humorous 
expression.  His  keen  eyes  were  scrutinising  the  girl's 
face,  too — he  could  not  quite  make  up  his  mind  whether 
she  were  repulsively  ugly  or  astonishingly  attractive. 

He  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  porter.  "I'm  afraid 
Mr.  Mayne  is  not  in  the  club,"  he  said  then.  "The 
porter  tells  me,  in  fact,  that  Mr.  Mayne  is  not  at  present 
in  London." 

"Ah !  Then  he  is  in  the  country  with  his  aunt,"  re- 
turned Zelie.  "I  shall  have  to  go  to  him  there.  Will 
you  kindly  ask  could  they  give  me  his  address?" 

The  Englishman  raised  his  brows.  This  was  really 
a  very  persistent  young  woman.  There  was  a  danger- 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  41 

ous  glitter  in  her  eyes,  too.  He  was  rather  inclined  to 
think  that  Mr.  Owen  Mayne,  whom  he  did  not  know 
even  by  repute,  was  in  for  troublous  times. 

He  spoke  to  the  porter  again,  then  turned  to  the  girl 
with  a  smile.  "I'm  afraid  they  can't  oblige  you  with 
what  you  require,"  he  explained.  "It's  against  the  rules 
of  the  club." 

"They  won't  give  me  the  address!"  Zelie's  jaw  fell 
and  her  eyes  flashed  with  indignation.  This  was  an  un- 
expected set-back,  and  she  was  inclined  to  look  upon 
it  as  a  plot  specially  devised  against  herself. 

The  young  Englishman  explained  further.  "It  is 
not  customary  to  give  members'  addresses.  Of  course, 
any  letters  are  immediately  forwarded  if  a  request  has 
been  made  for  them.  I  understand  that  Mr.  Mayne 
makes  but  small  use  of  the  club,  that  he  is,  indeed,  only 
very  rarely  in  England." 

,  Zelie  was  asking  herself  what  she  was  to  do.  She 
was  tapping  the  floor  impatiently  with  the  toe  of  her 
narrow  boot.  The  action  aroused  the  attention  of  the 
young  man.  What  remarkably  small  feet  she  had,  and 
what  a  strangely  lithe  figure.  He  was  beginning  to 
think  that  she  was  quite  attractive;  the  type  was  new 
to  him,  and  novelty  had  a  wonderful  charm  for  Stephen 
Aldis.  But  what  fierce  eyes  and  cruel  lips! 

It  was  at  this  moment,  just  as  Zelie  appeared  dis- 
posed to  give  way  to  an  outbreak  of  wrath,  that  an 
interruption  occurred  in  the  person  of  a  big,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  who  wore  a  black  beard,  and  who  for 
some  moments  had  been  scrutinising  Zelie  from  under 
peculiarly  heavy  brows.  He  had  emerged  from  a  room 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  was  putting  a  cloak  on  over 
his  evening  dress,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  going 
out,  when  the  little  scene  that  was  going  on  by  the 
porter's  box  had  attracted  his  attention. 


42  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"Unless  I'm  very  much  mistaken,"  he  said  now,  his 
eyes  still  fixed  upon  Zelie,  "I'm  acquainted  with  this 
young  lady."  He  smiled,  his  white  teeth  gleaming  be- 
hind the  heavy  beard.  Then  he  addressed  himself  di- 
rectly to  the  girl,  speaking  in  fluent  French.  ''Isn't 
it  Mile.  Zelie  of  the  Florian?"  he  inquired.  "Yes,  I'm 
sure  it  is." 

He  extended  a  large,  strong  hand,  which  Zelie  took 
readily  enough.  She  had  a  vague  recollection  of  hav- 
ing seen  this  big  Englishman  with  his  black  beard  and 
his  bronzed  cheeks  before,  though  she  could  not  recall 
the  circumstances  of  their  acquaintance. 

"Don't  you  remember?"  he  said,  "I  met  you  several 
times  at  the  Florian,  when  I  went  there  to  see  my  friend 
Dubois,  who  runs  the  show?  And  the  last  time  I  ran 
across  you  was  at  Le  Moulin  de  la  Bonne  Fortune  last 
Shrove  Tuesday.  You  were  with  my  friend  Mayne,  I 
recollect,  and  he  looked  daggers  at  me  because  I  dared 
to  claim  your  acquaintance.  So  I  made  myself  scarce 
pretty  sharply,  you  bet."  The  man  laughed  broadly; 
he  was  possessed  of  peculiarly  easy  manners,  and  gave 
Zelie  the  impression  of  belonging  to  the  Bohemian 
class  to  which  she  was  accustomed.  His  presence,  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  seemed  to  charm  away  the  sense  of 
loneliness  which  had  been  oppressing  her — it  was  like 
coming  across  an  oasis  in  the  desert. 

"I  remember,"  she  exclaimed.  "Yes,  I  remember 
quite  well.  But  I  have  forgotten  your  name." 

"I'm  Lord  Martyn,"  he  said ;  then  he  laughed  again. 
"Queer  thing,  eh?  You  wouldn't  believe  it  of  me. 
But  it's  a  fact.  However,  all  my  friends  call  me  Harry, 
too,  if  you  like." 

Zelie  remembered  now  with  something  of  a  thrill. 
This  Milor  Anglais  had  been  introduced  to  her  at  the 
disreputable  little  cafe  where  she  had  been  wont  to  per- 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  43 

form,  and  she  had  been  told  that  he  was  immensely 
wealthy — a  millionaire.  She  had  noticed  him  in  the 
theatre,  before  he  had  actually  spoken  to  her,  on  more 
than  one  occasion.  She  had  fancied  he  stared  at  her. 
He  was  eccentric,  she  had  been  told ;  but  then,  are  not 
all  the  English  eccentric? 

"You  disappeared  altogether  after  that  night,"  Lord 
Martyn  continued.  "What  the  deuce  became  of  you? 
I  went  to  the  Florian,  because  I  had  an  idea  in  my 
mind  in  which  you  were  concerned.  But  they  couldn't, 
or  wouldn't,  tell  me  anything.  And  now  what  are  you 
doing  in  England,  eh — here  at  the  Delphic,  of  all 
places?  Is  it  that  rascal  Aldis  who  has  brought  you? 
I'm  surprised  at  you,  Steve." 

He  slapped  the  other  man  heartily  on  the  back. 
But  Steve  Aldis  hastened  to  repudiate  the  suggestion. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  claim  acquaintance  with  this 
lady,"  he  said.  "She  came  to  the  club  to  ask  for  a 
man  named  Mayne,  who  doesn't  happen  to  be  here. 
I  don't  know  him,  so  couldn't  help  her." 

"Owen  Mayne?  That's  the  chap  I  spoke  of  just 
now,"  returned  the  big  man.  "I  didn't  know  he  be- 
longed to  the  Delphic,  for  he  was  always  a  fixture  in 
Paris.  But  he's  a  friend  of  mine  and  ought  to  be 
pretty  grateful  to  me,  for  I  did  him  a  good  turn  quite 
lately."  He  chuckled  at  the  recollection.  "I  was  the 
means,"  he  continued,  "of  bringing  him  and  his  aunt, 
dear  old  Mrs.  Alderson,  of  Selwood  Manor,  together. 
And  that  means  a  lot  for  Owen  Mayne,  I  can  tell  you." 

Selwood  Manor!  That  was  the  name  of  the  place 
which  Owen  had  mentioned  as  his  destination  and 
which  had  escaped  Zelie's  memory.  She  had  learnt 
what  she  wanted  to  know  in  most  unexpected  fashion. 
And  now  some  intuition  within  her  told  her  that  she 


44  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

must  be  discreet  and  not  betray  the  purpose  of  her  visit 
to  England. 

"My  own  place  is  near  Selwood,  within  five  miles  of 
it,"  Lord  Martyn  resumed,  "so  I  often  see  Mrs.  Alder- 
son,  who  is  the  dearest  old  lady  on  the  face  of  the 
earth."  Here  he  broke  off  suddenly  and  cast  a  sharp 
glance  at  the  girl  from  under  his  bushy  brows.  "But 
what's  the  idea  in  asking  for  Owen  Mayne?"  he  in- 
quired. "What  do  you  want  of  him,  eh  ?" 

Zelie  could  lie  readily.  She  lied  now.  It  was  evident 
to  her  that,  if  she  betrayed  her  real  purpose,  her  true 
relationship  to  Owen  Mayne,  she  might  well  be  re- 
garded with  disfavour. 

"I  came  to  England  to  look  for  an  engagement," 
she  said  readily.  "I  thought  a  change  would  be  agree- 
able. And  Monsieur  Mayne,  he  promised  that  he 
would  help  me." 

"Ah,  that's  it,  is  it?"  replied  the  man,  with  some 
relief  in  his  tone.  "Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  expect 
I  can  do  more  for  you  than  Mayne  could."  He  glanced 
at  the  clock.  "But,  look  here,"  he  resumed,  "you'd 
better  come  along  with  me  and  have  some  dinner.  As 
it  happens,  I'm  free  to-night.  Then  we  can  talk  it 
over.  What  do  you  say?" 

Zelie  eagerly  accepted  the  invitation.  Lord  Martyn 
turned  to  the  younger  man.  "Will  you  come,  too, 
Steve?"  he  asked. 

Stephen  Aldis  hesitated.  "I  had  an  engagement," 
he  faltered.  Then  his  eyes  met  those  of  Zelie.  "Yes, 
I  shall  be  very  happy  to  join  you,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock,  and  so,  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion that  it  would  be  the  right  thing  seizing  her,  Zelie 
paused  before  stepping  into  the  motor  brougham,  which 
was  awaiting  Lord  Martyn,  and  asked  whether  it  might 
not  be  possible  to  return  to  the  hotel  first  in  order 
that  she  might  change  into  an  evening  gown. 

She  had  an  intuitive  feeling  that  this  meeting  would 
be  fraught  with  great  consequences.  Her  brain  worked 
quickly — within  its  groove — and  she  was  naturally 
shrewd.  The  English  Milor  was  a  man  of  great 
wealth;  at  the  Florian,  as  she  remembered  now,  they 
had  spoken  of  his  generosity,  as  well  as  of  his  eccen- 
tricity, with  bated  breath.  And  he  was  palpably  in- 
terested in  her;  she  was  sure  of  that,  too,  both  from 
what  he  had  said  and  by  the  way  he  had  looked  at  her 
out  of  those  keen  grey  eyes  of  his. 

And  so  she  wanted  to  look  her  best.  She  was 
heartily  thankful  that  she  had  not  left  Paris  in  a  hurry, 
but  had  had  the  good  sense  to  pack  up  her  most  be- 
coming gowns. 

Lord  Martyn  assented  with  a  smile.  "It  will  be 
ever  so  much  better,"  he  said.  "Not  that  I  mind  for 
myself — I  once  took  a  flowergirl  with  a  red  shawl  over 
her  shoulders  to  lunch  at  the  'Regent' — but  since  it 
will  be  your  first  appearance  in  public  in  London,  Zelie, 
you're  bound  to  be  stared  at."  He  knew  from  experi- 
ence that  any  woman  would  be  stared  at  who  happened 
to  be  in  his  company.  "If  you've  got  a  really  smart 

45 


46  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

frock,"  he  added,  "we'll  go  to  the  Pallanza.  That 
will  be  a  good  opening." 

And  so  the  little  party  of  three  drove  to  the  hotel, 
where  Zelie  left  the  two  men  to  discuss  aperitifs  in  the 
lounge  while  she  found  her  way,  not  without  con- 
siderable difficulty,  to  her  bedroom.  She  had  noticed, 
with  delight,  as  she  passed  with  her  companions 
through  the  hall,  that  they  were  recognised,  and  that 
she  herself  appeared  to  be  regarded  with  new  respect. 

She  laughed  to  herself  as  she  allowed  her  grey  walk- 
ing dress  to  slip  to  the  floor,  and  laughed  again 
triumphantly,  as  she  stood  up,  bare-shouldered,  to  gaze 
at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  upon  the  dressing-table. 

"Queen  of  the  Apaches,"  she  muttered,  "  a  siren  of 
the  mountains — what  next?  Who  can  say?"  Owen 
Mayne  and  her  revenge  had  no  part  in  her  thoughts 
at  that  moment. 

But  presently  she  turned  petulantly  away  from  the 
mirror.  There  was  a  flaw  in  the  glass,  and  it  seemed 
to  distort  the  face  that  looked  back  at  her.  It  was  as 
if  the  red  lips  sneered. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  moved  to  the  window,  and, 
drawing  the  blind  aside,  gazed  down  into  the  street. 
It  was  as  if  she  obeyed  some  irresistible  impulse,  for 
she  had  already  gauged  the  unattractiveness  of  the 
scene  without. 

Narrow  though  the  street  was  upon  which  she  looked 
there  was  yet  considerable  traffic  in  it.  Zelie  gazed 
idly  up  and  down.  The  fog  had  cleared  away  some- 
what, but  thin  rain  was  falling  and  the  pavement  was 
damp  and  greasy.  There  was  a  brilliantly  lighted 
tobacconist's  shop  just  opposite,  and  beyond  that  several 
dark  houses. 

It  was  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  these  that  Zelie  of  a 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  47 

sudden  caught  sight  of  a  figure  that  had  a  strangely 
familiar  aspect.  She  drew  a  deep,  panting  breath. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  she  muttered,  gripping  at  her  throat 
with  nervous  fingers.  "Bibi!  But  it  isn't  possible — 
it  isn't  possible !" 

The  man  stood  there  motionless,  unaffected  by  the 
movement  about  him.  Zelie  could  almost  imagine  that 
he  was  gazing  up  at  her  window.  It  was  almost  as  if 
he  held  her  eyes  with  his. 

Of  course,  it  was  an  accidental  resemblance — or  so 
Zelie  told  herself — but  straightway  and  without  volun- 
tary effort  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  a  sordid  garret, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  of  a  sudden  as  if  there  were  a 
sharp  pain  in  her  shoulder — where  once  she  had  been 
struck  by  the  knife  of  her  Apache  lover. 

"A  Bibi  pour  la  vie."  The  tattoo  marks  upon  her 
arm,  the  bare  white  arm  that  held  the  blind  back, 
sprang  into  aggressive  prominence.  For  life!  And 
Bibi  had  threatened  her — she  could  see  his  face  now 
as,  in  court,  he  had  poured  out  imprecations  upon  her 
head. 

Supposing — only  supposing — Bibi  Coupe-vide  should 
be  following  her  as  she  was  following  Owen  Mayne — 
Bibi,  with  vengeance  in  his  heart  and  a  sharp  knife 
hidden  somewhere  about  his  person! 

Zelie  allowed  the  blind  to  flap  back  to  its  place. 
"It's  a  delusion,"  she  told  herself. 

But  Zelie  was  wrong.  It  was  no  delusion.  It  was 
Bibi  himself  whom  she  had  seen,  though  he,  of  course, 
was  unconscious  of  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

Bibi  had  loitered  all  day  about  the  Delphic  Club 
on  the  chance  of  meeting  Owen  Mayne.  He  had  been 
afforded  no  information  at  the  club  itself,  had,  indeed, 
been  treated  with  considerable  abruptness,  and,  un- 


48  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

fortunately  for  him,  he  could  not  apply  the  methods 
which  had  been  so  successful  with  M.  Blaize. 

And  so  it  had  come  about  that,  unseen,  he  was 
witness  of  Zelie's  visit  to  the  club.  He  had  watched 
her  departure  too,  and  had  tracked  the  brougham, 
the  progress  of  which  was  slow,  through  the  traffic  to 
the  hotel. 

Bibi  Coupe-vide  had  struck  the  trail.  But  Zelie,  as 
she  selected  her  smartest  gown,  laughed  to  herself 
at  the  delusion  which,  for  a  moment,  had  frightened 
her.  No — in  spite  of  that  mark  upon  her  arm  she  was 
rid  of  Bibi  for  ever.  So  she  assured  herself — in  her 
ignorance. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"I  DON'T  know  what  to  make  of  her.  I've  never  seen 
anyone  quite  like  her  before — and  I've  had  experience 
of  women  too." 

So  spoke  Stephen  Aldis.  He  was  an  actor  by  pro- 
fession, and  had  achieved  something  of  a  name  as 
"juvenile  lead."  His  good  looks  had  made  him  a 
great  favourite  with  women,  and  he  was  always  inun- 
dated with  letters  from  feminine  admirers.  So  he  only 
spoke  the  bare  truth  when  he  claimed  a  knowledge  of 
the  sex. 

Lord  Martyn  and  Stephen  Aldis  were  sitting  in  the 
lounge  of  the  hotel,  waiting  for  Zelie.  She  had  already 
been  the  best  part  of  half  an  hour  changing  her  dress, 
but  that  was  only  what  the  two  men  had  expected, 
and,  after  all,  there  was  no  hurry. 

"She  is  uncommon,"  mused  Lord  Martyn,  pensively 
sipping  his  aperitif,  a  remarkable  and  potent  concoc- 
tion of  his  own  invention.  "Uncommon  is  perhaps 
not  altogether  a  strong  enough  word.  One  might  say 
that  there  is  something  hardly  human  about  her." 

"Yes,  I  feel  that,"  returned  the  other,  bending  for- 
ward to  light  a  fresh  cigarette.  "My  first  impression 
was  very  distinct — I  told  myself  I  had  never  seen  so 
repellent  a  creature.  But,  then,  when  she  looks  at 
you  out  of  those  black,  shining  eyes  of  hers  you  feel 
magnetised,  as  it  were.  And  then  her  lips — have  you 
noticed  her  lips,  Harry?" 

Lord  Martyn  stroked  his  black  beard  with  a  hand 
49 


50  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

that  was  white  and  strong.  "Look  here,  young  man," 
he  said  gravely,  "you'd  best  not  think  too  much  of 
Mile.  Zelie's  eyes  and  lips.  They  are  dangerous. 
Those  lips  of  hers  by  themselves  are  like  a  red  danger 
signal.  You're  a  man  of  experience,  and  a  word  to 
the  wise — it's  an  old  saw,  but  true."  He  blew  a  cloud 
of  smoke  from  his  mouth  and  stared  for  a  moment  at 
the  long  black  cigar  he  held  between  his  fingers.  Lord 
Martyn's  cigars  were  always  the  terror  of  his  friends. 

"Do  you  know  why  that  woman  is  different  to 
others?"  he  resumed,  after  a  brief  pause.  "Do  you 
know  what  it  is  that  she  lacks?" 

For  a  moment  Aldis  had  been  inclined  to  resent  being 
preached  to — but  he  knew  his  friend's  outspoken  way. 
He  shook  his  head. 

"She  lacks  the  one  thing  that  makes  human  creatures 
human,"  was  Martyn's  reply.  "She  hasn't  got  a  soul. 
She's  like  a  wild  animal  in  the  shape  of  a  woman — 
or  perhaps  a  snake.  In  Paris  they  called  her  Zelie  la 
Couleuvre,  though  I  expect  that  was  because  of  her 
lithe  and  subtle  body.  You  should  see  her  dance, 
Steve — I  tell  you  she  writhes  from  feet  to  head,  and 
as  for  her  arms,  when  she  folds  them  about  her,  they 
are  like  two  clinging  serpents.  I  went  to  see  her  night 
after  night  at  the  Florian.  She  fascinated  me.  I 
meant  to  take  her  in  hand  then,  but,  as  I  told  you,  I 
lost  sight  of  her." 

"It's  jolly  interesting,"  said  Aldis,  "and  a  woman 
without  a  soul  is  by  way  of  being  a  novelty,  what? 
You're  always  discovering  queer  types,  Harry ;  it  seems 
to  be  a  speciality  of  yours.  What  do  you  propose  to  do 
with  Mademoiselle  Zelie  now  you've  found  her?" 

"Launch  her  on  the  English  stage,  of  course,"  re- 
sponded Martyn  promptly.  "I  tell  you  the  British 
public,  the  staid  and  Puritan  British  public,  will  rise 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  51 

and  proclaim  her  a  heaven-born  genius.  She'll  make  a 
fortune  for  herself  and  for  the  theatre  that  brings  her 
out.  Society  is  craving  for  a  new  sensation,  and  there's 
a  tendency  to  look  for  it  in  the  gutter.  We  are  ready 
to  exalt  the  Apache  and  the  Hooligan.  We've  seen  a 
lot  of  imitations — but  Zelie  is  the  real  thing — cruel  to 
her  finger-tips,  without  a  moral  sense  about  her,  reek- 
ing of  the  slum,  offspring  of  what  and  what  only 
Heaven — or  the  devil — knows,  vicious  because  vice  is 
her  nature.  What  can  Society  ask  for  more  than  that?" 
The  man  spoke  with  biting  sarcasm.  "Even  Dubois 
of  the  Florian  gave  her  a  bad  character,"  he  went  on ; 
"said  she  associated  with  thieves — and  worse.  There 
was  a  charming  gentleman  I  saw  in  her  company — 
Bibi  something  or  other — a  regular  Apache.  But 
Zelie  has  evidently  gone  up  in  the  world  since  then. 
She's  been  looking  about  her  and  learning  things.  It 
makes  her  all  the  more  dangerous  for  those  who  can't 
see  behind  the  veneer." 

"For,  in  spite  of  veneer,  she  hasn't  developed  a  soul," 
mused  Aldis.  "I  can  see  that  you're  right  there, 
Harry." 

"No,  and  it's  just  because  she  hasn't  a  soul  that  she 
will  go  so  far.  You  mark  my  words,  old  fellow,  for 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I've  come  across  the 
type  before  in  my  wanderings.  I've  met  it  in  Mexico 
— in  the  East — I've  seen  it  in  London.  I've  recognised 
it  among  the  highly-born  and  among  the  scum  of  the 
people.  It  very  rarely  comes  to  the  surface,  so  the 
world  doesn't  know  of  it.  As  a  rule,  it  dies  as  it  has 
lived — dies,  as  Zelie  might,  in  some  filthy  court,  in  the 
workhouse,  in  an  asylum  for  the  insane,  or  perhaps  by 
the  knife  of  one  of  its  fellows.  It  is  women  of  this 
type  who  take  to  drugs,  who  commit  all  manner  of 
secret  sin.  Put  power  into  the  hands  of  such  a  one  and 


52  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

she  will  ride  rough-shod  over  humanity — she  will 
crush  it  down  beneath  her  cruel  heels.  That's  because 
she  is  soulless.  But  woe  betide  the  woman — woe  be- 
tide Zelie — if  ever  a  soul  is  born  within  her.  For  I've 
seen  that,  too — yes,  my  God,  I've  seen  the  tragedy  of 
a  new-born  soul !" 

Lord  Martyn  had  been  speaking  with  more  feeling 
than  he  was  wont  to  show.  As  a  rule,  he  adopted  a 
tone  of  careless  insouciance. 

He  was  a  man  who  knew  the  world  better  than  most. 
He  had  probed  it  to  its  very  depths.  Wealth  had  come 
to  him  by  his  own  efforts ;  he  owed  nothing  to  his  birth 
and  parentage. 

The  inheritance  of  a  title  had  not  seemed  even  re- 
motely possible.  It  had  come  about  through  an  alto- 
gether remarkable  series  of  accidents  and  sudden  deaths 
which,  all  unexpectedly,  placed  him  in  the  position  of 
next-of-kin.  He  was  living  somewhere  in  the  wilds  of 
Mexico  at  the  time,  and  there  had  been  considerable 
difficulty  in  finding  him  and  bringing  him  over  to 
England  in  order  that  he  might  claim  his  rights.  That 
was  barely  three  years  ago,  and  to  the  cosmopolitan 
Henry  Flint,  the  builder  of  his  own  fortune,  it  seemed 
an  excellent  joke  that  he,  of  all  people  in  the  world, 
should  be  expected  to  take  his  place  in  the  midst  of  a 
county  society  that  was  eminently  staid  and  respectable. 
Chamney  Castle,  the  ancestral  seat  of  the  Martyns, 
was  on  the  border  of  Buckinghamshire,  and  the  new 
baron  was,  at  first,  regarded  with  anything  but  eyes 
of  favour  by  the  neighbourhood.  His  reputation  had 
preceded  him. 

Born  in  a  miners'  camp,  he  had  been  left  an  orphan 
when  little  more  than  a  child.  He  had  learnt  to  face 
and  fight  the  world  at  a  time  when  other  children  were 
scarcely  out  of  the  nursery.  Fate  had  treated  him 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  53 

kindly — perhaps  because  he  had  always  scoffed  at 
Fate.  He  had  built  up  a  fortune  for  himself  by  devious 
ways — no  one  knew  exactly  how,  though  he  had  no 
lack  of  candour  in  speaking  of  himself  and  his  affairs. 

He  had  ranched  in  Texas,  he  had  mined  in  the 
Yukon,  farmed  in  Canada;  he  was  the  hero  of  a  cele- 
brated "corner"  that  had  shaken  Wall  Street  to  its 
very  foundations;  there  was  scarcely  a  part  of  the 
world,  civilised  and  uncivilised,  of  which  he  could  not 
discourse  from  personal  acquaintance;  he  had  pene- 
trated further  into  the  heart  of  Asia  than  most  ex- 
plorers; he  could  adapt  himself  to  his  environment  in 
the  most  remarkable  manner,  equally  at  home  in  the 
jungle,  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  and  in  Pall  Mall. 

But  he  had  a  fine  disregard  for  the  conventions,  and 
was  not  afraid  of  proclaiming  his  unorthodoxy.  He 
shocked  his  respectable  neighbours  by  his  outspoken 
criticisms  of  them,  as  well  as  by  the  company  he  was 
wont  to  entertain  at  Chamney.  He  had  no  mind  to 
cover  himself  with  the  veneer  of  artificiality.  The 
most  unpardonable  sins  in  Lord  Martyn's  eyes  were 
cant  and  humbug. 

As  might  well  be  expected,  his  life  had  been  full  of 
romance.  It  was  hinted  that  he  had  a  grudge  against 
Society,  a  grudge  which  accounted  for  his  attitude  of 
contempt  for  humanity  at  large. 

Stephen  Aldis  emptied  his  glass.  "I  see,"  he  said ; 
"and  I  think  you  are  right  in  your  deductions,  Harry. 
You  usually  are.  All  the  same" — his  eyes  narrowed 
— "isn't  it  a  dangerous  game  that  you  propose  to  play  ? 
Someone  is  bound  to  be  hurt.  Isn't  it  rather  like  letting 
loose  a  caged  panther,  nourishing  a  snake  in  order  that 
it  may  sting?  Hadn't  Zelie  better  go  back  to  her 
gutter  ?" 

"What  do  I  care?"     Martyn  shrugged  his  broad 


54  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

shoulders.  "Society  must  look  to  itself.  It's  a  fine 
sport,  my  friend,  to  play  with  fire.  We  all  love  it, 
grown-up  children  that  we  are;  you  and  I  are  no  ex- 
ception. You're  quite  ready  to  improve  your  ac- 
quaintance with  my  snake-woman — I  can  see  that." 
He  smiled  knowingly  and  continued:  "What  we  crave 
for  to-day  is  the  new  sensation,  the  something  that  is 
unlike  anything  that  has  gone  before,  the  bizarre,  the 
unnatural — that's  what  Society  demands  not  only  upon 
the  stage,  but  in  everyday  life — in  its  very  drawing- 
rooms.  So  you  see,  Steve,  that  if  I  give  Mile.  Zelie  to 
the  world,  the  world  should  be  obliged  to  me." 

He  spoke  satirically,  his  white  teeth  gleaming  be- 
hind his  beard.  "It's  every  man  for  himself,  Steve,  my 
boy,"  he  added,  "and  every  woman  for  herself.  The 
eternal  contest.  The  looker-on  has  the  best  of  it — 
especially  if  he  can  move  the  pawns." 

At  that  moment  the  subject  of  their  conversation 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  the  two  men  rose  quickly 
and  joined  her.  Zelie  had  unconsciously  dressed  her- 
self to  suit  the  part  which  they  had  allotted  to  her.  She 
wore  a  demi-toilette,  such  as  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  don  when  dining  out  with  Owen  at  some  smart 
restaurant.  She  had  chosen  black  because  Owen  had 
always  said  that  black  suited  her  best.  And  Owen 
was  an  artist.  The  gown  was  moulded  closely  to  her 
form  and  the  bodice  scintillated  with  jet.  She  wore 
heavy  jet  pendants  in  her  ears.  Her  face,  very  white 
and  pale  in  contrast  to  the  black  of  her  dress,  peeped 
out  from  under  a  large  picture  hat,  extravagantly 
adorned  with  ostrich  feathers. 

Lord  Martyn  gazed  at  her  critically  and  with  appre- 
ciation. "You'll  do,"  he  said,  abruptly.  Then,  as 
they  were  about  to  pass  out  of  the  hotel,  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  arm. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  55 

"One  moment,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  think  a  touch  of 
colour  will  heighten  the  effect." 

There  was  a  flower  stall  by  the  door  and  here  Lord 
Martyn  purchased  a  rose  in  full  bloom.  It  was  the 
colour  of  blood.  He  pinned  it  himself  into  Zelie's 
bodice.  She  smiled  as  he  did  so,  well  pleased. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  TAXI-CAB  conveyed  them  to  the  famous  Cafe  Pal- 
lanza,  the  smart  semi-Bohemian  resort  where  Lord 
Martyn  had  elected  to  dine.  It  was  already  so  crowded 
that  they  would  certainly  not  have  been  accommodated 
with  a  table  had  not  his  lordship  been  well  known  to 
the  cheery  little  proprietor — a  popular  character  and 
quite  a  celebrity  in  his  own  way. 

Zelie  was  excited,  pleased  with  herself,  conscious  that 
she  was  looking  at  her  best — this,  despite  the  fatigue 
of  an  unwonted  journey  and  the  desperate  project 
which  had  inspired  her  to  leave  her  beloved  Paris. 
London  was  no  longer  a  hateful  place  in  her  eyes,  a 
city  of  fog,  bustle  and  confusion.  It  was  in  her  nature 
to  live  in  the  present,  and  the  present  was  showing 
itself  to  be  altogether  delightful. 

Never  before  had  she  realised  so  fully  the  curious 
magnetism  of  her  personality;  never  before  had  she 
received  such  open  homage.  She  was  keen-witted 
enough  to  understand  that  she  was  not  in  the  company 
of  ordinary,  every-day  kind  of  people;  that  fact  was 
self-evident,  if  only  from  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  received  at  the  restaurant. 

Everyone  had  turned  to  look  at  them,  and  Zelie  was 
happily  aware  that  she  was  the  centre  of  attraction. 
Such  smart  women,  too,  and  such  distinguished-looking 
men!  How  different  it  all  was  to  the  low  cafes  and 
brasseries  which  had  been  her  haunt  not  so  many 

56 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  57 

months  ago;  she  had  never  set  foot  inside  a  smart 
restaurant  until  she  had  gone  there  with  Owen.  But 
even  then  she  had  felt  herself  out  of  her  element,  de- 
pendent— now  she  was  free,  her  own  mistress.  She 
was  possessed  of  a  new  sense — it  was  that  of  power. 

She  adapted  herself  with  natural  shrewdness  to  these 
fresh  circumstances;  she  appeared  calmly  indifferent 
to  the  attention  which  she  aroused.  Zelie,  in  her  black 
clinging  gown  and  with  the  red  rose  at  her  breast,  was 
a  figure  that  people  would  have  turned  to  look  at  any- 
where, but  just  now,  since  she  was  in  the  company  of 
two  such  prominent  figures  as  Martyn  and  Aldis,  she 
was  naturally  subjected  to  the  keenest  scrutiny. 

People  were  making  whispered  remarks;  she  knew 
that  they  referred  to  herself  and  was  delighted.  She 
fancied  she  could  read  disapproval  in  the  women's 
eyes,  but  the  men — ah,  they  turned  their  heads  not  once, 
but  again  and  again. 

Lord  Martyn  was  an  adept  at  ordering  a  dinner. 
The  food  that  was  set  before  them  was  of  the  choicest, 
while  the  wine  flowed  as  freely  as  Zelie  could  desire. 
Her  heart  warmed  under  the  influence  of  it,  and  she 
gave  free  vent  to  her  natural  wild  spirits.  She  threw 
restraint  aside.  She  was  herself,  fierce,  primitive,  un- 
trammelled by  convention. 

Martyn  watched  her  through  half-closed  eyes,  filling 
her  glass  whenever  she  held  it  out  to  him.  There  was 
a  smile  of  amusement  upon  his  lips.  And  Aldis — it 
was  as  if  the  champagne — or  something  else — had  got 
into  his  blood  too.  He  was  lifted,  as  it  were,  into  a 
new  element.  The  familiar  restaurant  was  no  longer 
the  same.  He  might  have  been  in  the  very  heart  of 
Paris.  And  Zelie  was  responsible  for  this. 

It  was  when  dinner  was  concluded,  and  coffee  and 
liqueurs  set  before  them,  that  Lord  Martyn,  lighting 


58  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

up  one  of  the  strong,  dark  cigars  that  he  affected, 
unfolded  his  plans. 

"You  want  to  go  on  the  English  stage,  Zelie?"  he 
said.  "You  want  to  show  London  how  you  can  dance  ? 
Well,  if  I'm  any  judge,  you'll  make  a  success,  and  if 
I  had  not  lost  sight  of  you  in  Paris,  I  should  have  pro- 
posed your  visiting  England.  It's  just  luck  that  we've 
met  again.  I  shall  introduce  you  to  my  friend  Rad- 
cliffe,  of  the  Star  Theatre,  who'll  put  you  through 
your  paces.  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  I've  got  something 
else  in  view.  I  want  you  to  come  down  to  Chamney 
Castle,  my  place  in  Buckinghamshire,  to  take  part  in 
an  entertainment  which  I  am  giving  there  on  Thurs- 
day next.  To-day's  Saturday,  so  it's  five  days  from 
now." 

He  turned,  with  a  half  smile,  to  Aldis.  "The 
Duchess  is  coming  for  the  first  time,"  he  remarked, 
"and  a  lot  of  other  county  nobs.  I  guess  Zelie  will 
make  'em  sit  up.  They'll  either  hate  me  more  than 
ever  or  hail  her  as  a  genius — it  remains  to  be  seen 
which/' 

Aldis  laughed  heartily.  "I'm  glad  you've  extended 
an  invitation  to  me,  Harry,"  he  remarked.  He  handed 
Zelie  a  pear  as  he  spoke.  "But  if  you  ask  my  opinion, 
I  don't  mind  betting  that  the  Duchess  of  Shiplake  takes 
to  Zelie  at  once.  She's  a  good  sportswoman,  the 
Duchess,  and  there's  no  humbug  about  her." 

The  two  men  had  been  talking  in  English,  and  Zelie 
had  been  giving  herself  up  to  the  contemplation  of  all 
that  Lord  Martyn's  invitation — which  she  had  accepted 
at  once — meant  for  her.  Now  she  sank  her  sharp 
teeth  into  the  luscious  fruit  which  Aldis  had  set  before 
her,  disdaining  a  knife,  and  her  black  eyes  glittered 
and  shone. 

For  she  had  not  forgotten  that  Chamney  Castle  was 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  59 

within  a  mile  or  so  of  Selwood  Manor.  She  would 
meet  Owen,  and  under  what  astonishing  circumstances ! 
Ah!  he  would  see  that  she  had  not  suffered  by  his 
desertion  of  her ;  that  he  had  not  hurt  her  as  perhaps 
he  imagined  he  had  done.  She  could  laugh  at  him  and 
mock  him — him  and  his  pink-cheeked  saint! 

But  she  would  have  to  wait  a  day  or  so  longer,  and 
it  had  been  her  instinct  not  to  lose  a  moment  more 
than  could  be  avoided.  Ah,  but  that  was  when  the  hot 
blood  was  surging  through  her  veins,  when  every  fibre 
of  her  being  was  quivering  in  the  consciousness  of  the 
insult  that  had  been  offered  her.  She  was  no  less  vin- 
dictive now,  as  keenly  anxious  for  that  revenge  which 
she  had  promised  herself ;  but — Zelie  looked  about  her 
and  saw  the  smiling  faces  of  her  companions,  the  rich 
dresses  of  the  women  who  thronged  the  restaurant, 
caught  the  glimmer  of  gems,  the  gleam  of  white,  bare 
'shoulders.  An  invisible  band  made  soft  music  in  her 
ears,  and  in  her  nostrils  was  the  perfume  of  flowers  and 
femininity — that  peculiar,  intoxicating  scent  which 
hangs  over  a  fashionable  assembly.  She  caught  the 
light  ring  of  laughter,  and  she  was  laughing  too — for- 
getful of  everything  save  that  she  was  Woman  Tri- 
umphant, and  that  she  had  been  brought  to  the  thresh- 
old of  her  kingdom. 

Stephen  Aldis  watched  as  Zelie,  regardless  of  appear- 
ance, continued  to  bite  her  pear.  Those  little  sharp 
teeth  had  a  fascination  for  him,  none  the  less  potent 
because  he  knew  it  to  be  morbid.  Her  eyes,  too,  with 
their  indefinable  emerald  glint — why  did  all  the  pulses 
of  his  body  tingle  whenever  he  felt  that  her  eyes  were 
turned  to  him  ? 

It  was  ridiculous — he !  Why,  he  was  behaving  like 
a  mere  schoolboy,  and  Martyn,  observant  always,  would 
have  good  reason  to  laugh  at  him.  "It's  just  because 


60  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

she's  a  new  type  to  me,"  Aldis  muttered  to  himself.  "I 
expect  the  twentieth  century  is  beginning  to  pall.  With 
Zelie  one  thinks  of  primitive  creatures  in  caves  and 
forests,  hardly  human,  and  wholly  cruel  and  unre- 
strained. Martyn  is  right.  It's  dangerous — but  it 
fascinates." 

And  so,  regardless  of  the  good-natured  sneer  with 
which  his  friend  observed  him,  Aldis  made  no  further 
efforts  to  keep  himself  in  curb.  The  wine  had  mounted 
to  his  head,  but  it  was  not  with  wine  that  he  was 
intoxicated  so  much  as  with  the  subtle,  irresistible 
magnetism  that  emanated  from  Zelie. 

Aldis  and  Zelie  were  seated  together  on  one  side  of 
the  table,  while  Lord  Martyn  faced  them.  Close  at 
hand  was  a  staircase  that  led  to  a  gallery  where  dinners 
were  also  served.  This  staircase  was  visible  to  Mar- 
tyn, but  his  companions  had  their  backs  turned  to  it; 
thus  the  latter  did  not  perceive  how  two  ladies,  both 
very  fashionably  attired  and  wearing  rich  opera  cloaks, 
paused  and  looked  down  over  the  banister  at  the  little 
party  below. 

Aldis  had  been  making  some  laughing  remark  to 
Zelie,  who  sat,  a  cigarette  between  her  lips,  in  her 
favourite  attitude,  her  elbows  resting  on  the  table,  her 
fingers  crossed  beneath  her  chin.  The  younger  of  the 
two  women  upon  the  stairs  gave  a  little  start,  and 
her  pink  cheeks  flushed  as  she  recognised  Stephen 
Aldis.  She  was  very  fair  and  almost  doll-like  in  her 
artificiality,  but  she  was  a  clever  actress,  and  had  al- 
ready made  a  name  for  herself — or  rather  it  was  Aldis, 
with  whom  she  had  recently  acted  in  a  play  that  was 
a  palpable  success,  who  had  brought  her  into  promi- 
nence. 

Lord  Martyn  realised  the  situation  and  smiled ;  then 
he  half  rose  in  his  seat  and  waved  his  hand. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  61 

"There's  a  friend  of  yours  been  in  the  gallery  all 
the  time  without  seeing  us,  Steve,"  he  said.  "It's  Miss 
Cuthbert.  She's  with  Mme.  de  Freyne.  What  a  piece 
of  luck !  Mme.  Eve  is  the  woman  of  all  others  whom 
I  most  wanted  to  meet  just  now."  He  beckoned 
laughingly,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  two  ladies,  who  slowly 
descended  the  stairs. 

Aldis  had  turned  his  head,  too  experienced  to  evince 
any  agitation  or  annoyance.  But  he  cast  a  glance  over 
his  shoulder  at  Martyn,  with  a  suggestive  drawing 
down  of  his  lips.  "I'd  promised  to  fetch  Cecily  and 
take  her  out  to  dinner  to-night,"  he  said  in  a  half 
whisper.  "Who'd  have  dreamed  that  she  must  elect 
to  come  to  the  Pallanza?" 

The  newcomers  threaded  their  way  to  the  table, 
where  the  two  men  rose  to  receive  them.  Zelie  re- 
mained seated,  her  chin  still  resting  on  her  fingers,  the 
cigarette  hanging  between  her  lips.  A  certain  defiance 
had  sprung  into  her  eyes.  It  was  in  her  nature  to 
regard  her  own  sex  with  suspicion. 

Aldis  was  making  his  apologies  as  best  he  could. 
He  told  conventional  lies  in  a  graceful  tone  that  forced 
conviction.  He  had  been  detained  upon  business,  he 
explained,  till  he  feared  it  was  too  late  to  carry 
out  his  promise;  he  felt  certain  that  Miss  Cuthbert — 
Cecily — would  not  expect  him  after  eight  and  would 
understand.  He  had  proposed  to  call  later  on  and 
obtain  forgiveness. 

Cecily  Cuthbert  was  quickly  mollified — or  perhaps 
she  realised  that  it  was  politic  to  appear  so.  Stephen 
Aldis,  in  his  quality  of  a  manager,  proposed  shortly 
to  produce  a  new  play  and  there  was  a  part  in  it  which 
appealed  very  particularly  to  Cecily.  Furthermore,  a 
report  had  gone  abroad  which  hinted  that  the  hand- 
some actor-manager  was  really  at  last  contemplating 


62  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

matrimony,  and  her  name  and  his  had  been  coupled 
together.  Aldis  had  never  troubled  to  contradict  the 
rumour,  though  he  knew  of  it;  indeed,  he  had  been 
particularly  attentive  to  her  of  late.  As  for  Cecily 
herself,  she  did  not  make  any  secret  of  her  passion  for 
the  popular  actor ;  it  was  quite  usual  for  Aldis's  many 
admirers  to  express  their  devotion  in  exaggerated 
phrases. 

Cecily  was  a  beauty  of  repute,  and  her  artificiality 
was  of  her  age.  How  can  a  woman  be  natural  when 
she  has  to  devote  so  much  time  to  posing  for  her  photo- 
graph? Cecily  had  already  acquired  that  chief  symp- 
tom of  the  disease — the  set  smile.  It  was  a  pity,  be- 
cause there  was  a  good  deal  of  humanity  behind  all  the 
pretence — and  more  than  a  little  talent. 

Never,  Aldis  thought,  had  he  seen  greater  contrast 
between  any  two  women  than  between  Zelie  and  Cecily, 
as  Martyn  introduced  one  to  the  other.  A  picture  pre- 
sented itself  spontaneously  to  his  mind.  It  was  that  of 
a  lap-dog,  the  pampered  product  of  art  and  science, 
suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  crude  nature  in  the 
shape  of  a  wolf.  And  yet,  mysteriously,  the  same  blood 
ran  in  the  veins  of  both. 

It  was  true  enough  that  Cecily  had  pleased  and  cap- 
tivated him — even  that  he  had  seriously  contemplated 
making  her  his  wife.  A  good  fellow  at  heart,  he  had 
been  spoilt  by  too  openly-exposed  admiration.  He  had 
come  to  believe  himself  infallible  with  women.  In  her 
way  Cecily  was  almost  as  much  be-puffed  and  be- 
lauded as  he — yet  she  had  held  herself  aloof  for  his 
sake.  He  knew  it  and  was  flattered.  Besides,  had  he 
not  given  her  her  start  on  the  stage,  helped  her  to  cut 
herself  adrift  from  an  uncongenial  home-life — emi- 
nently high-class  and  respectable — in  order  that  her 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  63 

talents  might  have  full  swing?  He  felt  himself,  in  a 
manner,  responsible  for  her  future. 

And  now — well,  his  sentiments  were  wholly  un- 
changed, but  why  should  he  feel  annoyance  at  this 
meeting  of  Zelie  and  Cecily?  He  was  unpleasantly 
conscious  of  Lord  Martyn's  satirical  smile  as  the  latter 
watched  the  two  women.  Did  Martyn,  too,  see  the 
analogy  of  the  lap-dog  and  the  wolf? 

The  difficulties  of  introduction  over,  the  whole  party 
settled  down  again  harmoniously  at  the  table,  and  Lord 
Martyn  proceeded  to  explain  how  Zelie  had  come  to 
England  with  the  idea  of  obtaining  an  engagement  to 
dance  on  the  music-hall  stage. 

"Which  brings  me  to  my  point,"  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Cecily's  companion,  a  woman  of 
middle-age,  with  a  strong  masculine  face,  keen  steel- 
blue  eyes,  and  a  skin  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  turned 
brown  by  exposure.  "You,  my  dear  Eve" — he  spoke 
with  the  familiarity  of  intimate  acquaintance — "are 
just  the  woman  I  wanted  to  see.  I'm  going  to  ask  you 
to  do  me  a  favour — and  refuse  at  your  peril."  He 
shook  his  forefinger  laughingly  at  her.  "I  know  the 
tricks  of  the  trade,  you  know." 

"Speak,  oh,  king,"  said  Mme.  de  Freyne  in  mock 
heroic  tone.  She  had  a  deep  voice  that  harmonised  with 
her  appearance. 

"I  want  you  to  take  charge  of  Mile.  Zelie  for  the 
next  three  or  four  days  at  any  rate.  She's  a  stranger 
in  London,  knows  nobody,  and  doesn't  speak  a  word 
of  English.  She's  putting  up  at  present  at  the  North- 
umberland Hotel.  I'd  like  you  to  take  her  to  your  flat 
to-morrow.  You're  coming  to  Chamney  next  Wednes- 
day, so  you  could  bring  Mile.  Zelie  with  you.  I've 
got  to  run  down  on  Monday  myself,  as  that's  the  day 


64.  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

the  house-party  begins  to  assemble.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"You  want  me  to  be  Mile.  Zelie's  chaperon?"  The 
journalist — for  such  was  Mme.  de  Freyne's  profession 
— puffed  at  her  cigarette  unconcernedly.  She  was 
always  remarkable  for  her  passivity  of  expression. 
Yet  she  had  already,  with  characteristic  rapidity,  taken 
mental  measure  of  Lord  Martyn's  new  protegee. 

"That's  the  strength  of  it."  Martyn  spoke  quickly 
and  in  English.  "You'll  be  interested,  Eve.  The  girl's 
a  savage.  She  is  coarse  and  ignorant,  and  hasn't  a 
vestige  of  moral  sense.  But  it  won't  be  long  before 
London  echoes  with  her  name.  She  is  going  to  be  the 
pioneer  of  Retrogression.  We're  all  a  bit  over-civilised 
and  are  getting  tired  of  it.  We  want  a  touch  of  primi- 
tive brutality.  Society  has  been  looking  for  something 
fresh  to  shock  and  delight  it.  Well,  here  we  have  the 
very  thing — Zelie!" 

Eve  de  Freyne's  shoulders  quivered  a  little,  though 
her  lips  hardly  relaxed.  This  was  an  indication,  how- 
ever, that  she  was  amused.  Lord  Martyn's  utter 
cynicism  always  pleased  her,  for  like  him,  she  knew  the 
world  and  had  learnt  to  make  mock  of  it. 

"All  right,"  she  said  curtly.  "I'm  willing.  And 
there's  no  reason  why  your  protegee  should  stay  at  the 
hotel  to-night.  She  can  come  straight  home  with  me. 
We'll  send  for  her  things  in  the  morning." 

"That  will  be  much  the  best  plan,"  agreed  Martyn 
with  an  appreciative  nod.  "I  can  send  you  back  in 
my  brougham — unless  you've  got  your  own  out.  It 
can  pick  me  up  at  the  club  later  on."  He  glanced 
across  the  table  at  Aldis.  "Steven  is  fixed  up  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening,"  he  added. 

"Thank  you,"  responded  Mme.  de  Freyne,  "let  it  be 
your  brougham.  Cecily  and  I  came  in  a  taxi.  She 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  65 

called  round  for  me  after  she  had  waited  the  best  part 
of  an  hour  for  that  faithless  swain  of  her.  She  was 
almost  in  tears.  I  suggested  dining  here — to  buck  her 
up  a  bit."  The  shoulders  quivered  again.  "I  didn't 
anticipate  this  pleasant  meeting.  Say" — Eve  de  Freyne 
professed  to  have  American  blood  in  her,  and  occa- 
sionally spoke  with  a  marked  twang — "he  was  playing 
it  up  pretty  thick — your  Steve — as  we  came  down  the 
stairs  ?  I've  always  warned  Cecily  not  to  take  him  too 
seriously.  But  she's  lost  her  head  over  him — worse 
luck  for  her." 

Martyn  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders.  "If  any  man 
should  be  able  to  take  care  of  hiself  it's  Steve  Aldis. 
It's  his  own  look-out  if  he  gets  bitten — he  knows  what 
he's  doing.  But  it  all  goes  to  prove  Zelie's  powers — 
and  that  I'm  right  in  my  estimate  of  her.  So  I  look 
on — and  am  amused." 

He  turned  to  Zelie,  addressing  her  in  her  own  lan- 
guage. "Listen,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "Mme.  de  Freyne 
has  very  kindly  offered  you  the  hospitality  of  her  flat 
while  you  are  in  London.  You  needn't  even  go  back 
to  the  hotel  to-night.  It  will  be  nicer  for  you,  stranger 
to  London  as  you  are,  to  have  a  companion.  And 
Mme.  Eve  can  put  you  up  to  the  ropes.  She  speaks 
French  like  a  native — her  husband  was  a  fellow- 
countryman  of  yours,  you  see.  Now,  I  suggest  that 
you  two  ladies  have  a  little  chat  together,  and  I  expect 
it  won't  take  you  many  minutes  to  fix  everything  up." 

The  necessary  shifting  of  seats  followed  this  sug- 
gestion, and  Mme.  de  Freyne  and  Zelie  were  soon  in 
intimate  converse.  The  journalist  possessed  the  qual- 
ity, when  she  cared  to  exert  it,  of  gaining  people's  con- 
fidence, and  Zelie,  naturally  suspicious  of  her  own  sex, 
succumbed  sooner  than  might  have  been  expected. 


66  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

She  expressed  herself  happy  to  fall  in  with  the  arrange- 
ments that  had  been  made  for  her. 

Supper  parties  were  beginning  to  assemble  before 
the  little  company  thought  of  breaking  up.  The  res- 
taurant, almost  deserted  for  the  last  hour,  was  filling 
up  again.  Once  more  Zelie  realised  the  scrutiny  of 
curious  eyes — though  it  was  Cecily  Cuthbert,  the  well- 
known  beauty,  who  attracted  attention  in  the  first  in- 
stance. Still,  it  was  upon  Zelie  that  regard  lingered 
most  persistently. 

"Who  the  devil  is  that  girl  at  the  table  with  Stephen 
Aldis?"  Martyn,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  still 
smoking  a  black  cigar,  caught  the  words  distinctly. 

"I  haven't  an  idea,"  was  the  answer,  "but  you  may 
well  invoke  the  devil,  old  chap.  I  never  saw  such  a 
wicked-looking  little  baggage  in  my  life.  There's 
something  about  her — I  believe  it's  sheer  ugliness — 
that — well,  I've  not  been  able  to  take  my  eyes  off  her 
for  the  last  ten  minutes." 

Martyn  smiled  to  himself,  well  pleased. 

They  rose  at  last  and  trooped  out  to  the  vestibule 
where  the  men  busied  themselves  helping  the  ladies 
with  their  cloaks.  Cecily  Cuthbert  kept  very  near  to 
Aldis;  she  had  succeeded  in  monopolising  him  ever 
since  her  advent  upon  the  scene,  and  Aldis  was  too 
good-natured  and  easy-going  to  allow  her  to  realise 
how  much  he  wanted  to  resume  his  interrupted 
badinage  with  Zelie. 

There  were  times,  he  told  himself  now,  when  even 
Cecily  Cuthbert  was  capable  of  boring  him. 

But  he  had  promised  to  see  her  home — she  lived  in 
a  little  house  at  South  Kensington  with  a  fellow 
actress — and,  of  course,  he  must  keep  his  word.  He 
seized  the  opportunity,  however,  when  Mme.  de  Freyne 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  67 

was  bidding-  Cecily  good-night,  to  speak  a  few  hurried 
words  to  Zelie. 

He  held  the  small  sinewy  white  hand  which  she  ex- 
tended to  him  a  little  longer  than  was  necessary.  "So 
you  are  going  to  stay  with  our  journalist  friend?"  he 
said  in  low  tones.  "Well,  she's  a  good  sort,  and  you 
couldn't  be  in  better  hands.  But  you  must  let  me  come 
and  see  you.  I'm  interested  in  you,  you  know.  I  agree 
with  Martyn  that  you  are  going  to  take  London  by 
storm." 

He  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper.  "May  I 
come — to-morrow  ?" 

Zelie  gave  a  quick  assent,  her  eyes  dancing  and 
flashing  their  strange  green  light  upon  him.  "Come 
when  you  like — as  often  as  you  like,"  she  said,  without 
any  attempt  to  modify  her  tone.  "Pourquoi  non?" 
She  broke  into  a  laugh  of  sheer  delight  and  excite- 
ment, a  laugh  that  was  inspired  by  the  glamour  and 
intoxication  of  the  moment.  "I  like  you,  mon  ami, 
I  like  you  all.  And  your  London — ah,  I  am  glad  that 
I  came  to  your  London.  For  now  I  am  going  to  live 
— to  live!"  She  clapped  her  hands  together;  for  the 
moment  she  was  like  a  child. 

Stephen  Aldis  laughed  back  and  was  about  to  whis- 
per a  further  remark;  then,  hearing  his  name  pro- 
nounced, he  turned  quickly  away. 

Cecily  Cuthbert  was  regarding  him  with  sombre 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  X 

"I  HOPE  we  shall  be  friends — the  best  of  friends,"  said 
Eve  de  Freyne,  as  she  drew  her  cloak  closer  about  her 
shoulders,  which  were  heavy  and  fleshy,  and  settled 
herself  comfortably  against  the  soft  cushions  of  the 
car. 

The  last  adieux  had  been  said,  the  final  arrange- 
ments for  meeting  at  Chamney  made,  and  Zelie  was 
now  on  her  way  to  her  new,  if  temporary,  home.  Her 
heart  was  still  beating  quickly  with  excitement  and 
elation  of  spirits.  For  she  felt  that  she  had  crossed  the 
threshold  of  a  new  and  wonderful  world. 

"I  never  had  a  woman  friend  in  all  my  life,"  she 
said  naively,  then  she  corrected  herself  sharply :  "Tiens, 
yes,  there  was  Nanon  1'Escargot — that's  what  we  called 
her  because  she  had  a  hump  on  her  back.  Nanon  "was 
good  to  me  when  I  was  a  brat  of  a  girl.  She  saw  me 
dancing  in  the  street  to  the  music  of  an  old  fiddle — 
it  was  Pere  Requin  who  played  it.  I  hadn't  had  a 
scrap  of  food  that  day,  but  I  could  dance,  I  could 
always  dance.  Nanon  fed  me  and  I  stayed  with 
her — "  Zelie  broke  off  her  story  with  some  abrupt- 
ness " — oh,  for  some  months." 

"Why  did  you  leave  her  ?"  Mme.  de  Freyne  put  the 
question  merely  because  she  wante  Zelie  to  continue 
talking. 

"I  got  tired — and  ran  away."  The  answer  was  given 
jvith  a  certain  sullenness.  "Nanon  wanted  to  make 

68 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  69 

money  off  me — because  I  could  dance.  She  wanted  to 
tie  me  up.  And  then  there  was  Chicot." 

"Who  was  Chicot?" 

Zelie  gave  a  little  toss  to  her  head.  "Oh,  Chicot 
belonged  to  a  brasserie  out  Belmont  way.  He  said  I 
was  wasting  myself  with  Nanon."  Zelie  neglected 
to  mention  that  she  had  been  incited  by  her  Apache 
friend — the  one  who  had  first  "launched"  her — to  rob 
her  benefactress,  who  had  been  nearly  murdered  in  an 
attempt  to  save  the  few  gold  pieces  that  she  had  stored 
away. 

"I  used  to  dance  at  the  brasserie  and  then  go  round 
and  collect  sous  in  a  shell,"  the  girl  went  on,  in  no  way 
ashamed  of  her  checkered  career.  Owen,  indeed,  had 
always  encouraged  her  to  speak  of  it,  amused  and  in- 
terested by  the  lurid  pictures  of  life  in  low  places  which 
Zelie  would  draw  for  his  benefit.  "It  was  rather 
amusing  and  my  shell  was  always  full — silver,  too — 
but  the  old  men,  they  gave  the  most.  They  did  not 
know  how  I  mocked  them  behind  their  backs — the  old 
gredins!  But  Chicot — he  took  all  the  money  and  he 
beat  me — until  one  day  I  turned  upon  him  and  hit 
him — it  was  with  an  iron  bar — his  face  was  all  over 
blood  when  he  fell.  And  how  he  squealed!  It  made 
me  laugh." 

"A  return  to  the  primitive,  indeed !"  muttered  Mme. 
de  Freyne  to  herself.  "Harry  was  right."  Aloud  she 
said:  "What  about  your  parents,  Zelie?" 

Zelie  had  never  known  her  parents  and  said  so 
frankly.  Her  very  earliest  recollection  was  of  an 
orphanage,  an  asylum  for  unwanted  children,  which 
she  had  hated  and  run  away  from  almost  as  soon  as  she 
could  toddle.  After  that  her  home  had  been  the  gut- 
ter. She  had  been  taught  to  beg  by  an  old  chiffonnier. 
To  thieve  had  been  natural  to  her.  A  little  savage, 


70  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

she  had  grown  up  without  respect  of  man  or  fear  of 
God. 

Mme.  de  Freyne  would  doubtless  have  elicited  more 
of  Zelie's  story  had  not  the  recital  been  unexpectedly 
interrupted.  The  motor  brougham  happened  to  be 
passing  the  Northumberland  Hotel,  when  the  elder 
woman,  gazing  out  of  the  window,  observed  a  crowd 
of  people,  together  with  several  policemen,  at  the  door. 
Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  tapped  on  the  glass 
and  told  the  chauffeur  to  stop. 

"What's  the  matter  at  the  Northumberland?"  she 
inquired  of  a  policeman  who  was  standing  near  at 
hand. 

The  man  appeared  to  recognize  her  and  civilly  lifted 
his  hand  to  his  helmet.  "I'm  afraid  there's  been  mur- 
der done,  madam,"  he  said.  "Leastwise,  there's  some- 
one very  badly  hurt." 

Mme.  de  Freyne's  professional  interest  was  imme- 
diately aroused.  "I  must  get  out,"  she  exclaimed,  "and 
inquire  into  this  at  once.  The  Comet  will  be  glad  of 
an  early  report.  Do  you  know  any  particulars  ?"  She 
addressed  the  policeman  with  characteristic  brusque- 
ness. 

"Not  much,  madam,"  she  responded.  "I  believe 
it's  one  of  the  staff  who's  hurt.  They  found  a  man — 
a  thief,  I  guess — lurking  in  one  of  the  corridors.  He 
was  just  about  to  go  into  a  room  when  he  was  collared. 
But  the  fellow  had  a  knife — and  used  it.  The  alarm 
was  given  at  once,  only  unfortunately  the  murderer  got 
away.  He  threw  down  his  knife  and  climbed  out  of 
a  window,  they  tell  me.  He's  probably  still  lurking 
somewhere  about,  for  the  whole  thing  only  happened 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  We're  bound  to  get  him." 

"Thank  you."  Mme.  de  Freyne  slipped  a  coin  into 
the  man's  hand.  "And  now  I  think  I'll  go  to  the  hotel 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  71 

and  make  some  further  inquiries.    May  the  car  wait 
for  me  here  ?" 

The  policeman  shook  his  head.  "Tell  the  chauffeur 
to  turn  round  the  corner,"  he  said.  "He  won't  be  in 
the  way  in  Bowen  Street,  and  it  will  only  be  a  few 
steps  more  for  you  to  go." 

"Right."  In  a  few  hurried  words  Mme.  de  Freyne 
explained  the  situation  to  Z&ie.  "I  shan't  keep  you 
waiting  long,"  she  said.  "It's  professional  zeal,  you 
know." 

With  which  and  a  wave  of  her  hand  the  journalist 
hurried  up  to  the  hotel.  A  word  to  the  policeman  on 
duty  was  sufficient  to  obtain  her  admission. 

Meanwhile  the  car  was  driven  slowly  round  into  a 
narrow  thoroughfare  at  a  little  distance  from  the  scene 
of  the  crime.  The  street  was  ill-lit,  and  to  Zelie, 
gazing  anxiously  out  of  the  window,  it  appeared  to  be 
a  blind  alley.  The  car  halted  by  the  curb  and  presently 
the  chauffeur,  taking  a  paper  from  his  pocket  set  him- 
self to  read  it. 

Zelie  had  only  dimly  understood  what  Mme.  de 
Freyne  had  said  to  her.  A  murder  at  the  Northumber- 
land Hotel — where  she  would  have  been  staying  had 
not  other  arrangements  been  made  for  her  ?  Had  she 
heard  aright? 

A  vague  fear  came  upon  her.  She  remembered  her 
fancy  of  some  hours  ago  when  she  had  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  imagined  she  recognised  Bibi.  Bibi ! 
but  that  was  absurd.  For  Bibi  was  far  away — in  Paris 
— even  if  he  was  not  still  in  prison.  Was  it  time  for 
him  to  be  out  of  prison  yet? 

Presently  a  boy,  who  wore  the  livery  of  a  page, 
appeared  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  chauffeur.  The 
latter  dismounted,  and,  opening  the  door  of  the 
brougham,  addressed  himself  to  Zelie,  Of  course,  he 


72  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

spoke  in  English,  and  she  did  not  understand  what 
he  said.  But  since  he  was  evidently  asking  a  question 
she  nodded,  and  said,  "Yes,  please,"  which  seemed  to 
satisfy  him,  for  he  closed  the  door,  and  then,  some- 
what to  her  alarm,  disappeared  with  the  page, 
moving  off  in  the  direction  of  the  hotel. 

Zelie  was  left  alone.  She  supposed  it  was  all  right, 
and  that  the  chauffeur  had  been  called  away  to  speak 
to  Mme.  de  Freyne;  nevertheless,  her  nervousness  in- 
creased. 

She  could  not  help  thinking  of  Bibi.  Had  he  come 
out  of  prison?  The  minutes  passed  slowly.  She  be- 
gan a  mental  calculation.  It  was  in  March  that  he  had 
been  convicted — the  end  of  March.  Six  weeks !  Why, 
of  course — suddenly  she  interrupted  herself  with  a 
smothered  scream,  for  the  door  of  the  brougham  had 
been  quietly — very  quietly — opened  upon  the  road  side, 
and  a  white  face — a  face  that  had  a  smear  of  blood 
upon  one  cheek — was  peering  at  her  from  the  gloom 
without. 

She  was  staring  into  the  eyes  of  Bibi  Coupe-vide. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  door  of  the  motor  brougham  had  swung  open 
now  to  its  full  extent,  and  Zelie,  craning  her  body 
forward,  her  fingers  digging  into  the  soft  cushioned 
seat  on  either  side  of  her,  was  staring,  wild-eyed,  at 
the  white,  ill-omened  face  that  presented  itself  in  the 
aperture. 

The  face  with  its  ugly  red  smear  upon  the  one  cheek, 
with  its  dark  hair  that  hung  lank  over  the  forehead, 
almost  covering  one  of  the  eyes,  with  its  snarling  lips, 
with  its  look  of  a  hunted  beast — the  face  of  Bibi,  the 
Apache. 

Then,  in  a  flash,  she  realised  that  it  was  true — that 
which  she  had  vaguely  dreaded  when  Madame  de 
Freyne  had  told  her  of  the  crime  at  the  Northumber- 
land Hotel.  Bibi  was  the  culprit,  the  man  who  had 
made  his  escape,  and  whom  the  police  were  now  seek- 
ing. By  some  means  he  had  traced  her  to  the  hotel, 
and  it  was  for  her  that  he  was  searching  when  he  was 
interrupted — with  such  tragic  results. 

And  now  they  had  actually  met.  They  were  face 
to  face — she  and  the  man  whom  she  had  ruthlessly 
betrayed  and  sent  to  prison,  the  man  who  had  vowed 
to  be  revenged  on  her. 

She  neither  screamed  nor  lost  her  head.  Zelie,  at 
least,  possessed  the  virtue  of  fierce,  primitive  courage. 
The  necessity  of  facing  dangers,  of  meeting  attacks, 
had  been  instilled  into  her  from  her  earliest  years. 
Besides,  Bibi  was  unarmed;  had  not  Madame  de 

73 


74  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Freyne  spoken  of  a  knife  thrown  away  ?  He  was  not 
a  man  possessed  of  any  great  muscular  strength;  all 
things  being  equal,  Zelie  was  quite  capable  of  holding 
her  own  against  him.  And,  as  it  happened,  she  had 
the  advantage.  With  a  deft  movement  of  her  right 
hand  she  seized  the  dagger  which  was  concealed  in  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  and  which  she  had  carried  ever 
since  leaving  Paris. 

Bibi  was  as  surprised  as  Zelie  herself.  He  had  been 
lurking  there  in  some  dark  corner,  unable  to  find  his 
way  out  of  the  impasse,  and  not  daring,  dishevelled 
as  he  was,  to  venture  back  into  the  main  street.  The 
police  would  be  upon  him  in  a  few  minutes,  they  would 
drag  him  out  to  the  light,  and  his  bloodstained  hands 
and  face  would  betray  him. 

He  had  watched  the  arrival  of  the  motor-brougham, 
had  observed  the  departure  of  the  chauffeur.  Here 
was  a  woman  alone — and  shelter.  The  police  would 
never  think  of  seeking  him  in  so  fine  a  carriage.  It 
was  a  case  for  intimidation.  The  woman  must  be 
compelled  to  lend  him  her  aid.  He  would  frighten  her 
into  doing  so.  If  all  turned  out  as  he  hoped  he  would 
drive  quietly  away  from  the  scene  of  his  crime — for 
the  chauffeur  was  bound  to  return  in  a  minute  or  two 
— and  so  make  good  his  escape. 

It  was  a  desperate  resolution,  but  he  proceeded  to 
put  it  into  practice.  And  so  he  found — Zelie. 

"Bibi!" 

She  uttered  the  name  in  an  excited  whisper.  It 
was  curious,  but,  of  a  sudden,  all  her  desire  was  to 
save  the  fugitive  from  his  pursuers.  Her  instinctive 
hatred  and  fear  of  "La  Rousse" — as  she  would  have 
called  the  police — came  to  the  surface.  It  was  one 
of  the  principles  of  her  gutter  education.  And  of  Bibi 
himself  she  was  no  longer  afraid. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  75 

Furthermore,  at  that  moment  a  couple  of  policemen 
had  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Presently 
they  were  joined  by  a  sergeant.  There  was  no  time 
to  be  lost.  She  stretched  out  a  hand  and,  clutching 
Bibi  by  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  dragged  him  into  the 
carriage. 

He  fell  on  the  seat  by  her  side,  staring  vacantly  and 
muttering  under  his  breath.  It  was  she  who  closed 
the  door  of  the  brougham,  drawing  it  to  with  a  smart 
click.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  him,  still  hold- 
ing her  knife  under  her  hand,  but  sufficiently  exposed 
for  him  to  see  it.  He  was  hatless,  his  clothes  were 
mud-bespattered,  and  she  noticed  that  he  had  cut  his 
hands — doubtless  when  escaping  from  the  window — 
which  accounted  at  once  for  the  blood  upon  his  cheek. 
He  presented  a  pitiable  appearance. 

"You're  in  a  pretty  state,  my  poor  Bibi,"  she  said, 
with  more  than  a  suggestion  of  contempt.  "So  you've 
been  sticking  your  knife  into  someone  and  got  the 
police  on  your  track  ?  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?" 

"You  know  well  enough,"  he  retorted.  "I  came  to 
London  to  find  you.  You  were  at  that  hotel.  I  saw 
you  go  in.  I  made  some  inquiry.  Madame  Mayne — 
you  called  yourself,  Madame  Mayne!  I  saw  red.  I 
hid  myself  in  an  empty  room — no  one  interfered  with 
me  when  I  went  upstairs.  And  when  everything  was 
dark  and  quiet  I  crept  out.  My  hand  was  on  the  knob 
of  your  door  when  that  pig  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm." 
The  Apache  ground  his  teeth  together.  "I  settled  him 
with  one  blow,  but  he  screamed  out,  and  then  they  all 
came  running.  I  had  to  run,  too." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Did  you  want  to 
put  the  knife  into  me,  Bibi?" 

He  turned  sombre  eyes  upon  her.  "Into  him — 
perhaps  you  too,  if  you  resisted.  I  meant  to  take  you 


76  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

back — back  to  Paris  with  me.  I'd  have  beaten  you  till 
you  cried  for  mercy.  You  are  mine,  and  I've  the 
right."  With  a  quick  movement  he  seized  her  hand 
and  threw  back  her  sleeve — as  he  had  done  once  be- 
fore in  Paris.  "What's  that  upon  your  arm  ?"  he  cried 
hoarsely,  pointing  to  the  tattoo  mark.  "You  are  mine, 
you  belong  to  Bibi  for  life.  Deny  it  if  you  can.  And 
I  want  you.  Don't  you  understand  that?  I  have  you 
in  my  blood." 

His  fingers,  with  their  sharp  nails,  dug  into  the  soft 
flesh  of  her  arm.  To  her  the  sensation  was  not  un- 
pleasant. Brutality  was  second  nature  to  her.  She 
knew  that  what  he  said  was  true.  If  he  could  carry 
her  off  now — if  she  should  consent  to  go  back  to  him 
— he  would  take  the  first  opportunity  to  beat  her  till 
she  fainted,  to  kick  her  as  she  lay  at  his  mercy.  It 
would  be  a  duty.  Nevertheless,  he  loved  her ;  he  "had 
her  in  the  blood." 

Suddenly  she  put  her  finger  to  her  lips.    "Hush!" 

The  police  were  parading  the  street,  scrutinising 
every  area,  exploring  every  dark  entry.  Had  Bibi  re- 
mained where  he  had  been  for  another  five  minutes 
he  would  inevitably  have  been  discovered.  As  it  was, 
the  smart  brougham,  wherein  was  seated  a  lady  in 
evening  dress,  did  not  present  itself  as  an  object  of 
suspicion,  and  though  the  searchers  passed  close  to  it, 
even  glanced  through  the  shut  window,  they  went  on 
without  deeming  a  nearer  inspection  necessary.  Prob- 
ably they  argued  that  something  had  gone  wrong  with 
the  motor  and  that  a  wait  in  this  quiet  street  was  in- 
evitable. The  absence  of  the  chauffeur  only  lent  colour 
to  this  idea. 

Zelie  had  spread  out  her  skirt,  and  Bibi  crouching 
in  his  corner  of  the  carriage,  was  almost  hidden  from 
view.  The  danger  was  over  for  the  present,  but  an- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  77 

other  would  arise  very  shortly.  The  chauffeur  was 
bound  to  return,  alone  or  with  Madame  de  Freyne. 
There  was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

"You  don't  want  to  give  me  up  to  the  police  ?"  mut- 
tered the  man.  "You  could  have  got  rid  of  me  that 
way — for  the  second  time.  They'd  have  sent  me  to  the 
gallows — and  there'd  have  been  an  end  of  it.  But  I'd 
have  strangled  the  life  out  of  you  first — if  I  could." 
He  added  the  last  words  savagely,  staring  down  at  his 
bleeding  fingers  and  glancing  askance  at  the  knife, 
which  Zelie  had  placed  on  the  seat  by  her  side,  within 
easy  reach  of  her  hand. 

"You  may  put  the  knife  away,"  he  went  on,  in  the 
same  tone.  "I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  I  want  to  get 
out  of  this  with  a  whole  skin.  In  a  few  minutes  I  may 
go."  He  turned  sharply.  "Where  is  he?"  He  laid 
strong  accent  upon  the  pronoun,  supplementing  it  with 
a  lurid  expletive. 

Zelie  laughed  musically.  "Owen  Mayne?"  she 
queried.  Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Owen" 
— she  still  pronounced  the  name  "O-en" — "Owen 
Mayne  is  a  brute.  I  hate  him." 

She  understood  the  man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal, 
understood  him  thoroughly.  Bibi  Coupe-vide,  follow- 
ing the  instincts  of  his  class,  was  only  jealous  of  her 
love — as  he  realised  the  meaning  of  the  term.  He  did 
not  mind  what  escapades  she  might  be  up  to  as  long 
as  her  heart  remained  his  and  his  pocket  was  well 
lined  in  consequence.  To  do  her  justice,  she  had  evinced 
small  inclination  for  fresh  adventures  since  placing 
herself  in  the  hands  of  Bibi,  her  earnings  as  a  dancer 
being  quite  sufficient  to  keep  him  in  the  idleness  that 
was  dear  to  his  heart. 

And  now,  quite  suddenly,  Zelie  saw  her  way  to  turn 
this  meeting,  which  at  first  had  seemed  so  terrifying, 


78  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

to  her  advantage.  She  could  have  her  revenge  with- 
out herself  incurring  any  danger.  The  weapon  should 
be  wielded  by  another  hand,  but  it  would  strike  as 
surely  and  perhaps  more  swiftly. 

Bibi  would  no  longer  be  angry  with  her  if  he  thought 
she  did  not  love  the  Englishman,  while  it  was  in  her 
power  to  inflame  his  wrath  against  the  latter,  by  judi- 
cious lying,  to  a  pitch  of  fury.  Furthermore,  she  could 
play  upon  Bibi's  cupidity.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
would  commit  any  crime  for  money. 

As  far  as  Owen  was  concerned  she  had  no  remorse. 
She  had  set  out  for  England,  knife  in  hand,  to  revenge 
herself  upon  him. 

She  felt  she  hated  him  with  a  bitter  hatred.  Had 
she  ever  loved  him  ?  Had  she  ever  loved  anyone  ?  She 
only  knew  that  she  loved  herself  best  of  all,  and  that 
she  would  willingly  sweep  all  the  world  aside  for  her 
own  advancement. 

And  so  Bibi  Coupe-vide,  whose  hands  were  already 
red,  might  be  turned  to  excellent  account.  If  the 
police  should  secure  him  before  he  had  time  to  do  as 
she  desired,  well,  then  it  could  not  be  helped — at  any 
rate,  he  would  be  out  of  her  way. 

"Bibi,"  she  said ;  "listen  to  me,  mon  gars.  We  must 
say  what  has  to  be  said  quickly,  because  my  friends 
may  return  at  any  moment,  and  you  must  not  be  seen 
with  me.  You  wonder  that  I  say  I  hate  this  Owen 
Mayne.  I  do.  I  never  cared  for  him.  It  was  merely 
a  little  bit  of  fun,  a  lark — a  madness  of  Carnival  night. 
I  have  wanted  you,  my  Bibi,  all  the  while." 

He  laid  his  hands  upon  her  bare  shoulders  and 
turned  her  so  that  she  directly  faced  him.  She  met 
his  eyes  without  flinching. 

"Is  this  true?" 

"True,  I  swear  it.     You  are  my  adored  Bibi." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  79 

"You  gave  me  up  that  night.  It  was  you  who  set 
the  police  after  me." 

"No,  no,"  she  lied,  breathing  hard,  her  bosom 
palpitating  under  the  black  corsage.  "It  was  not  on 
purpose.  You  thought  so,  but  you  were  in  error.  I 
was  frightened,  for  you.  I  thought  another  followed 
behind  you,  and  I  screamed.  I  could  have  bitten  off 
my  tongue,  but  it  was  too  late.  And  then  the  next  day 
— and  the  next  day — and  the  day  after  that — came  this 
Englishman.  He  pestered  me  to  sit  to  him.  At  last 
I  consented.  I  thought  you  would  never  forgive  me 
and  that  I  had  lost  you.  But  I  never  loved  Owen 
Mayne — never.  And  at  last  I  left  him,  left  him  of  my 
own  accord.  For  I  had  made  other  friends,  you  see, 
here  in  London.  Big  people,  Bibi,  rich  and  powerful. 
They  say  I  can  dance,  that  I  will  make  money,  heaps 
and  heaps  of  money.  You  shall  have  your  share,  mon 
ami.  But  this  Owen  Mayne — he  will  not  leave  me 
alone.  He  says  that  I  shall  not  dance — he  wishes  to 
keep  me  to  himself.  Ah,  my  dear,  you  can  help  me. 
You  would  have  killed  the  Englishman  and  beaten  me. 
You  have  no  longer  need  to  beat  me  who  love  you, 
but  you  can  still  kill." 

Zelie  poured  out  her  lies  with  astonishing  rapidity. 
Her  voice  was  soft  and  endearing,  and  she  had  the 
subtle  movements  of  a  cat. 

Bibi  looked  at  his  blood-stained  hands.  "And  if  I 
should  escape  from  this  mess,"  he  asked  slowly,  "and 
should  do  as  you  wish,  what  do  I  get  for  it  ?" 

Zelie  had  taken  a  lace  handkerchief  from  her  pocket 
and,  after  pouring  a  few  drops  of  scent  upon  it  from 
a  tiny  flagon,  was  rubbing  the  stain  from  the  man's 
cheek. 

"Will  you  come  back  to  me — to  your  Bibi?"  he 
asked  grimly. 


80  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

She  was  brushing  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead 
now,  smoothing  and  tidying  it,  while  at  the  same  time 
she  kept  anxious  glance  upon  the  window  lest  danger 
should  come  in  sight  at  the  end  of  the  street. 

"Not  yet,  my  Bibi,"  she  murmured,  in  pouring,  ca- 
joling tone.  "You  must  not  ask  that  of  me — for  both 
our  sakes.  For  look  you,  I  am  going  to  make  much 
money — London  is  going  to  ring  with  my  name.  They 
have  told  me  so,  my  new  friends.  There  is  a  Milor, 
Bibi — a  man  of  consequence.  But  I  shall  not  forget 
you — no.  Your  pockets  shall  be  full  of  gold.  Think 
of  that,  and  what  you  will  do  with  it — at  Montmartre. 

And  one  day  I  will  come  to  you "  she  laughed — 

"together  we  will  go  back  to  the  old  life.  It  will  be 
like  the  old  times.  N'est-ce  pas?  For  we  shall  be 
rich,  and  how  we  shall  be  envied !" 

The  narrow  eyes  of  the  man  glittered  covetously. 
"You  swear  to  me  that  this  is  true,  Zelie?"  he  mut- 
tered. 

She  swore  that  it  was  true.  She  used  all  the  arts 
she  possessed  to  convince  him  of  her  sincerity.  She 
painted  a  picture  that  made  the  mouth  of  the  Apache 
water.  All  this  should  be  his,  but  first 

"And  you  will  give  your  heart  to  none?  Bibi  shall 
always  be  first?  For  if  you  fail  me  in  this" — he 
punctuated  his  speech  with  a  vile  oath — "I  will  kill  you 
— yes — without  mercy,  though  I  lose  my  head  for  it." 

She  gave  him  the  promise  he  required,  gave  it 
lightly,  mindful  only  of  gaining  her  immediate  point. 
If  Bibi  executed  her  will  he  would  have  to  flee  the 
country,  or  perhaps  he  would  be  caught — what  did  it 
matter?  When  the  day  came  then  would  be  the  time 
to  reflect — not  now. 

"Don't  I  prove  my  love,  Bibi,  when  I  ask  you  to 
rid  me  of  this  Owen  Mayne?" 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  81 

"Where  shall  I  find  him?" 

The  question  was  not  an  easy  one  to  answer — and 
time  pressed.  Bibi  would  need  explanations  which  she 
at  the  moment  was  unable  to  give. 

"Tell  me  an  address  that  will  find  you,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "I  will  write.  There  is  no  time  to  go  into 
details." 

"I'm  with  Alphonse  Lereux,"  Bibi  responded.  "He's 
got  a  restaurant,  Number  77,  Conway  Street,  Soho." 
He  brought  out  the  unaccustomed  syllables  with  diffi- 
culty. "That  will  find  me — unless  the  detectives  get 
on  my  track." 

"They  won't,"  Zelie  said.  Then  she  asked  quickly: 
"Is  that  Alphonse  the  blackmailer?"  She  knew  Al- 
phonse Lereux  by  name.  He  had  left  his  country  for 
his  country's  good. 

Bibi  nodded.  "Yes.  He  doesn't  love  me  much,  does 
dear  Alphonse.  But  I  have  a  hold  on  him." 

"Good.  Then  I  will  write  to-morrow.  And  now, 
my  Bibi,  you  must  go.  But  there  is  money  for  you," 
— she  emptied  her  purse  into  his  open  hand — "and 
there  will  be  more — plenty  more.  See  that  you  don't 
let  yourself  be  caught.  Ah,  tiens,"  she  cried  suddenly, 
bursting  into  a  ripple  of  laughter  and  picking  up  a 
man's  cloak  which  had  been  left  in  the  brougham,  "here 
is  disguise  for  you.  It  must  be  the  coat  of  the  Milor 
Anglais.  This  is  his  carriage.  Take  it,  Bibi.  Wrap 
it  well  round  you.  They  will  think  you  have  come 
from  a  theatre.  You  will  not  be  suspected." 

She  helped  him  eagerly  to  don  the  coat,  tingling 
with  impatience  now  to  be  rid  of  him.  The  garment, 
of  course,  was  much  too  large  for  the  thin  figure  of 
the  Apache,  but  he  did  as  she  advised,  and  wrapped  it 
closely  about  him.  It  would  effectively  conceal  the 
disorder  of  his  own  clothes. 


82  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Then,  as  Zelie  opened  the  door  of  the  brougham, 
Bibi  seized  and  held  her  in  a  violent  embrace,  throwing 
her  lithe  body  back  over  his  arm  and  pressing  his  hot 
mouth  to  her  red  lips.  For  a  moment  her  senses 
reeled.  She  was  Zelie  the  Snake  once  more — Zelie  of 
Montmarte. 

But  she  quickly  recovered  and  disengaged  herself. 
"Go,"  she  cried  hoarsely,  "go  quickly.  Trust  me,  and 
you  shall  be  rich — rich  beyond  your  wildest  thoughts. 
But  there  must  be  no  mistake.  You  know  what  you 
have  to  do.  Owen  Mayne  still  demands  my  love.  He 
is  in  our  way."  The  words  came  in  an  intense  whis- 
per. "Kill  him!— kill  him!" 

With  which  she  thrust  Bibi  from  the  carriage.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  one  foot  resting  upon  the  step. 
His  face  appeared  livid  in  the  lamplight.  But  she 
closed  the  door  upon  him,  and  watched  through  the 
window  as  presently  he  drifted  away  to  the  crowded 
and  illuminated  street  beyond. 

Then  Zelie,  still  breathing  heavily,  leant  back  against 
the  soft  cushions  of  the  carriage,  and  composed  herself 
for  the  return  of  Madame  de  Freyne.  She  glanced  at 
her  watch,  an  enamelled  trinket  which  had  been  given 
her  by  Owen.  It  had  seemed  as  if  Bibi  had  been  with 
her  for  hours;  in  reality  the  whole  scene  had  been 
enacted  in  little  more  than  fifteen  minutes. 

Yet  in  those  minutes,  if  all  went  well,  she  had  signed 
the  death  warrant  of  Owen  Mayne.  She  had  revenged 
herself  for  his  desertion,  while  her  own  position  re- 
mained secure. 

She  picked  up  the  dagger  which  still  lay  by  her  side 
on  the  seat,  and  regarded  it  for  a  moment  with  in- 
scrutable eyes.  Then  she  thrust  it  back  into  the  bosom 
of  her  dress. 

In  doing  so  she  dislodged  the  rose  which  Lord  Mar- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  83 

tyn  had  given  her.  It  fell  to  the  floor  of  the  carriage, 
shedding  petals  in  its  fall.  Nevertheless  she  gathered 
these  together,  lifting  them  in  the  palms  of  both  hands 
to  her  lips,  which,  for  a  moment,  she  buried  in  the 
scented  mass.  Then  she  raised  her  head,  smiling,  and 
allowed  the  rose  leaves  to  fall  slowly,  one  by  one, 
through  her  fingers  to  the  floor.  They  lay  there — like 
a  stain  of  blood. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MADAME  DE  FREYNE  occupied  a  charming  flat  in 
Knightsbridge.  Zelie  quickly  learned  to  make  herself 
at  home,  though  her  manners,  even  after  her  training 
with  Owen,  still  left  much  to  be  desired.  Her  weird 
beauty,  however,  atoned  for  a  good  deal ;  besides,  she 
was  quick  and  willing  to  learn,  realising  the  im- 
portance of  this  for  her  future  triumphant  progress. 
At  heart  she  remained  a  savage,  as,  if  Lord  Martyn 
prophesied  truly,  she  would  remain  to  the  end. 

To  the  journalist  she  presented  a  study  of  the  deepest 
interest.  Mme.  de  Freyne  was  never  tired  of  listening 
to  those  stories,  which  Zelie  was  always  ready  to  tell, 
of  life  in  the  great  city.  And  the  language!  That, 
too,  even  to  a  woman  of  her  experience,  was  a 
revelation. 

Of  Owen  Mayne,  save  as  a  friend  who  had  taken  an 
interest  in  her  and  who  had  suggested  that  she  should 
come  to  England,  Zelie  spoke  never  a  word.  Now. 
more  than  ever,  it  was  to  her  interest  to  keep  silence  in 
respect  to  him. 

She  had  written  to  Bibi  according  to  her  promise, 
giving  him  the  information  which  she  had  been  unable 
to  provide  with  sufficient  detail  on  the  occasion  of  their 
unexpected  meeting.  Owen  Mayne  was  at  Selwood 
Manor,  which  was  in  Buckinghamshire,  the  seat  of  a 
Mrs.  Alderspn,  his  aunt.  The  nearest  town  was  Sel- 
wood, where  there  was  a  station.  Then  followed  such 
instructions  as  Zelie  could  give  as  to  the  best  way  for 

84 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  85 

Bibi  to  reach  his  destination.  She  had  found  it  out  by 
judicious  questioning  of  Mme.  de  Freyne  and  by  her- 
self struggling  with  a  time-table.  She  said  nothing 
whatever  about  her  own  approaching  visit  to  the 
neighbourhood.  She  hoped,  even,  that  everything 
might  be  over  by  then. 

She  begged  Bibi  not  to  come  to  see  her.  Her  letter 
was  charged  with  illiterate  protestations  of  affection. 
She  renewed  her  promises  of  wealth  in  the  future.  She 
signed  herself,  "Zelie  who  adores  you."  And  as  she 
sealed  the  letter  she  screwed  up  her  lips  into  an  ex- 
pression of  half-humorous  disdain. 

"He  will  do  as  I  tell  him,  my  Bibi.  Then  the  Rousse 
will  get  him,  and  I  shall  be  free." 

So  far,  as  she  was  glad  to  know,  the  police  had  not 
succeeded  in  laying  hands  upon  the  perpetrator  of  the 
Northumberland  Hotel  assault — an  assault  which  had, 
luckily,  not  proved  fatal,  though  the  victim  was  lying 
in  hospital  in  sorry  condition.  The  criminal  was  re- 
ported to  have  escaped  in  marvellous  fashion,  and  the 
police  were  severely  blamed  for  having  allowed  him 
to  slip  through  their  fingers. 

It  was  assumed  as  certain  that  robbery  had  been  the 
culprit's  motive,  and  so,  luckily  for  Zelie,  no  impor- 
tance was  attached  to  the  fact  that  it  was  at  the  door 
of  her  room  that  the  assault  was  committed.  Mme.  de 
Freyne,  in  her  journalistic  capacity,  had  not  thought 
of  associating  the  name  of  Mrs.  Mayne — which  Zelie 
had  given  at  the  hotel — with  her  young  friend,  and 
Zelie,  upon  the  following  morning,  had  driven  alone 
to  the  hotel — her  hostess  being  busy  with  newspaper 
work — to  fetch  her  luggage.  She  had  been  congratu- 
lated upon  having  escaped  a  fright,  and  she  had  been 
asked  certain  questions  by  the  inspector  in  charge  of 
the  case,  to  which  questions  she  had  given  ready  an- 


86  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

swers,  and  she  had  driven  off  again  without  attracting 
the  smallest  suspicion  to  herself. 

Eve  de  Freyne  was  very  apologetic  for  having  kept 
Zelie  waiting  so  long  in  the  brougham.  She  had  been 
detained  on  another  matter  altogether,  and  had 
imagined  that  she  might  not  be  able  to  drive  back  with 
her  guest  to  Knightsbridge  after  all.  Her  conscience 
was  pricking  her,  too,  about  keeping  Lord  Martyn's 
carriage  so  long. 

Under  these  circumstances  she  had  sent  one  of  the 
hotel  messengers  to  the  chauffeur,  requesting  the  latter 
to  come  and  receive  instructions  from  her.  She  pro- 
posed telling  him  to  drive  Zelie  straight  to  Knights- 
bridge,  where  he  would  have  to  explain  to  the  servants 
— the  young  lady  not  talking  English — that  madem- 
oiselle was  a  friend  of  her  own  and  was  to  be  shown 
every  hospitality.  She  could  not  write  all  this  in  a 
note,  and  had  therefore  sent  for  the  man  himself. 

As  it  happened,  however,  she  was  so  busy  when  the 
chauffeur  arrived  that  there  had  been  a  delay  before 
she  was  able  to  speak  to  him.  And  when  she  was,  at 
last,  disengaged  there  seemed  no  longer  any  need  for 
sending  Zelie  off  by  herself.  And  so,  after  a  few 
minutes  more,  Mme.  de  Freyne  made  her  way  back 
to  the  motor,  arriving  there  only  a  minute  or  two  after 
the  chauffeur.  She  had  found  Zelie  waiting  for  her, 
apparently  more  than  half  asleep. 

The  only  real  trouble  that  resulted  from  that  night's 
experiences  was  the  loss  of  Lord  Martyn's  coat.  He 
called  upon  the  following  day  to  inquire  about  it.  He 
was  certain  that  he  had  left  it  in  the  brougham,  and 
shook  his  head  at  Mme.  de  Freyne's  suggestion  that 
it  must  have  been  mislaid  at  the  restaurant.  Zelie,  of 
course,  knew  nothing  about  it,  but  expressed  an  opin- 
ion that  Milor  was  wearing  his  coat  when  they  arrived 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  87 

at  the  Pallanza — yes,  she  could  remember  his  removing 
it  in  the  hall. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  accept  this  explana- 
tion, but  Lord  Martyn  frowned  and  was  evidently 
more  troubled  over  his  loss  than  he  cared  to  admit. 
There  were  important  papers  in  one  of  the  pockets,  he 
declared,  and  it  was  very  undesirable  that  they  should 
pass  into  other  hands. 

At  this  Zelie  felt  a  qualm — hardly  of  conscience,  for 
she  was  not  troubled  with  such  a  possession,  but  of 
self-reproach,  for  if  there  was  any  man  upon  earth 
just  then  whom  she  did  not  desire  to  injure  it  was 
Lord  Martyn.  Besides,  it  was  just  possible  that  the 
guilt  might  be  brought  back  to  her,  which  would  be 
very  unpleasant.  She  reflected  uneasily  upon  the  char- 
acter of  Alphonse  Lereux,  and  wondered  if  Bibi  would 
have  sufficient  sense  to  keep  those  papers  to  himself. 

But  living  in  the  day  as  she  did,  she  soon  put  her 
fears  aside.  Lord  Martyn  was  charming  to  her  and 
appeared  in  no  way  to  have  modified  his  opinion  as 
to  her  future  success.  He  had  called  that  Sunday 
quite  unexpectedly,  owing  to  the  worry  over  his  cloak, 
and  he  could  only  spare  a  few  minutes  for  his  visit. 
But  he  had,  it  appeared,  already  made  arrangements 
for  Mr.  Radcliffe,  of  the  Star  Theatre,  to  call  on  the 
Monday,  so  that  no  time  should  be  lost  in  getting 
Zelie  started  upon  her  stage  career. 

"We  meet  again  on  Thursday  at  Chamney  Castle," 
he  said,  as  he  took  his  leave.  "And  don't  be  afraid 
of  shocking  the  good  Society  folk  whom  you  will  find 
there,  my  dear  Zelie.  Be  natural,  and  then  they  are 
bound  to  think  you  are  adopting  a  clever  pose  and  will 
be  suitably  impressed." 

Zelie  didn't  understand,  but  she  nodded  her  head 
quickly  several  times  and  flashed  her  dark  eyes  at  him. 


88  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

Stephen  Aldis  came  to  see  her  that  Sunday,  too, 
and  had  tea  at  Mme.  de  Freyne's  flat.  He  brought 
her  flowers,  fantastically  shaped  orchids,  which  he  must 
have  put  himself  to  great  trouble  to  find — especially 
on  a  Sunday.  He  was  looking  very  handsome,  Zelie 
thought,  with  his  rather  boyish  face  and  his  crisp, 
curly  hair,  but  his  type  was  too  Saxon  to  suit  her 
taste  really,  though  she  was  amused  at  his  thinly  veiled 
devotion — more  and  more  openly  expressed  with  each 
visit  he  paid,  for  he  did  not  confine  himself  to  Sunday, 
but  came  upon  Monday  and  Tuesday  as  well. 

It  was  all  a  symbol  of  the  triumphant  progress  that 
was  in  store  for  her.  This  man,  this  Stephen  Aldis, 
was  run  after  by  all  the  women  in  London — Eve  de 
Freyne  had  told  her  so.  And  now  he  was  at  her  feet, 
she  who  had  not  sought  to  encourage  him. 

It  was  on  the  Tuesday  afternoon  that  Zelie,  who  had 
gone  to  lie  down  before  dinner — as  was  now  her 
wont — was  aroused  by  Clementine,  the  French  maid, 
who  begged  her  to  descend  to  the  drawing-room,  as 
there  was  a  caller  whom  Mme.  de  Freyne  would  like 
her  to  meet. 

Zelie  got  up  grumbling.  She  hated  being  disturbed 
when  she  was  resting.  Still,  it  would  not  have  been 
diplomatic  to  refuse,  and  besides,  she  was  naturally 
curious.  So  she  sent  Clementine  back  with  a  message 
that  she  would  be  down  in  a  few  minutes. 

It  took  her  rather  more  than  that  before  she  was 
satisfied  with  her  general  appearance.  Her  hair  was 
uintidy,  and  she  could  not  contrive,  in  a  hurry,  to  re- 
dress it  exactly  as  she  wished.  As  she  thrust  hair- 
pins into  the  recalcitrant  black  locks  she  muttered  im- 
precations— in  choice  Montmartre — under  her  breath 
upon  such  late  callers. 

She  descended  at  last  to  the  drawing-room.     She 


89 

entered  the  room  with  that  noiseless  tread  that  dis- 
tinguished her  and  was  so  curiously  feline.  Mme.  de 
Freyne  was  there,  talking  to  a  man  whose  back  was 
turned  to  the  door.  He  wore  blue  serge,  Zelie  noticed, 
not  the  conventional  frock-coat  of  London. 

Eve  Freyne  looked  up  as  Zelie  entered. 

"Ah,  here  you  are,  my  dear,"  she  cried.  "I  think 
you  know  this  gentleman  and  will  be  pleased  to  see 
him." 

The  man  turned  quickly  but  a  little  awkardly.  He 
had  broad,  but  rather  rounded,  shoulders,  and  his 
figure  appeared  familiar.  When  he  faced  her,  smiling 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  Zelie  gave  a  little  cry  which 
might  have  expressed  anger  or  alarm,  but  which 
Mme.  de  Freyne  took  for  pleasure. 

The  visitor,  unobserved,  had  lifted  his  finger  to  his 
lips,  indicating  caution.  The  warning  was  not  lost 
upon  Zelie,  but  recognition  was  evidently  expected  of 
her. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  exclaimed.  "Robin!  And  how 
are  you,  mon  ami?" 

She  touched  his  fingers  with  hers,  then  drew  back, 
scanning  his  face  with  eyes  that  were  charged  with 
suspicion  and  defiance. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ROBIN  behaved  with  what  was,  for  him,  remarkable 
tact.  He  gave  no  hint  of  the  fact — for  it  was  a  fact 
— that  he  had  traced  Zelie  to  her  present  address,  and 
that  his  visit  at  the  Knightsbridge  flat  was  solely  upon 
her  account. 

Luckily  he  could  claim  acquaintance  with  Mme.  de 
Freyne,  whom  he  had  met  in  Paris  a  year  or  so  before, 
and  whom  he  usually  called  upon  when  he  happened 
to  be  in  London.  Once  chatting  with  the  journalist, 
it  had  been  quite  easy  to  lead  the  conversation  into 
the  required  direction,  and  then,  when  Zelie  was  men- 
tioned, to  admit  that  he  knew  the  dancing  girl  and 
would  be  pleased  to  see  her  again.  Robin  was  very 
careful  not  to  commit  himself  in  any  way.  He  was 
acting  for  his  friend  Owen,  whose  name  must  not  be 
mentioned  for  fear  of  bringing  about  that  scandal 
which  would  be  so  disastrous  just  now. 

Robin  had  been  on  tenterhooks  ever  since  he  had 
learnt  of  Zelie's  flight  from  Paris  as  to  whether  or  no 
she  had  made  boast  of  her  liaison — as  he  still  regarded 
it — with  Owen.  And  why  had  she  come  to  London  at 
all  ?  He  could  not  guess  her  motive — though  he  feared 
it.  And  how  on  earth  had  it  come  about  that  she  was 
living  in  the  house  of  so  well-known  a  woman  as  Eve 
de  Freyne? 

His  conversation  with  the  latter  had  set  his  mind 
somewhat  at  rest.  Mme.  Eve  had  told  him  unhesi- 
tatingly how  Zelie  had  been  introduced  to  her.  She 

90 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  91 

had  come  to  London  to  seek  an  opening  on  the  stage, 
and  this  looked  promising — almost  as  if  Zelie  had  ac- 
cepted her  dismissal  from  Owen  before  it  was  actually 
spoken.  Furthermore,  Mme.  de  Freyne  had  not  men- 
tioned Owen's  name  once  in  the  whole  course  of  their 
talk. 

Still,  much  remained  that  had  to  be  spoken  between 
himself  and  Zelie,  and  the  glances  which  he  now  and 
then  threw  in  her  direction  clearly  betokened  the  fact. 
Zelie  met  his  eyes  on  these  occasions  with  a  look  of 
defiance  which  made  him  uneasy.  He  had  always 
feared  and  disliked  the  girl — her  fascination  had  never 
been  able  to  touch  him.  He  regarded  her  with  the 
same  aversion  that  he  might  have  for  a  snake. 

He  hated  what  he  had  to  do,  but  it  was  his  duty 
towards  his  friend.  And  presently  fortune  favoured 
him,  for  Mme.  de  Freyne  rose  from  her  seat  and  an- 
nounced that  she  had  some  writing  which  must  abso- 
lutely be  completed  before  dinner. 

"But  don't  hurry  away,"  she  said  to  Robin.  "I'm 
sure  that  you  and  Zelie  would  like  to  have  a  chat 
about  Paris.  For  myself,  I'll  say  good-bye." 

And  so  they  were  left  alone,  facing  each  other, 
these  two,  animated,  both  of  them,  by  the  instinct  of 
a  struggle  to  come. 

Zelie  had  risen,  too,  when  Mme.  de  Freyne  left  the 
room.  She  remained  standing,  one  foot  resting  on 
the  fierce  head  of  a  great  tawny  tiger-skin  rug  that 
was  stretched  out  in  front  of  the  hearth.  The  attitude 
suited  her. 

Robin  closed  the  door  behind  his  hostess  and  then 
approached  Zelie.  "I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  alone," 
he  said  simply. 

"Yes."  Her  red  lips  curved  defiantly.  "You  have 
followed  me.  Did  he  send  you?" 


93  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"Owen?"  Robin  was  standing  close  to  Zelie  now, 
one  elbow  resting  on  the  mantelpiece.  "In  a  way 
he  did.  I  had  to  go  to  Paris — on  business  of  my  own. 
I  left  England  last  Sunday.  It  was  Saturday  night, 
Zelie,  that  news  reached  Owen  of  what  you  had  done." 

"What  had  I  done?"  So  much  had  happened  since 
Zelie  left  Paris  that  she  had  almost  forgotten  her 
escapade  with  the  picture. 

"  The  Chamois  Hunter,' "  said  the  man  sternly. 
"You  know." 

Zelie  broke  into  a  ripple  of  derisive  laughter.  "Ah 
— ah !  It  was  well  done.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"It  was  a  mean  act  and  a  cruel  act,"  retorted  the 
man  warmly.  "Moreover,  it  was  infinitely  foolish 
— as  you  shall  learn.  You  knew  that  my  friend,  the 
man  who  never  treated  you  anything  but  well,  had 
sold  his  picture  for  a  large  sum;  you  knew,  too,  that 
his  work  was  a  masterpiece,  the  exhibition  of  which 
at  the  Salon  was  bound  to  bring  him  fame.  Yet  in 
your  rage  you  wantonly  hacked  this  picture  to  pieces." 

"I  did,"  cried  Zelie,  her  eyes  flaming.  "And  I'm 
glad  of  it — glad.  Had  he  not  deceived  and  deserted 
me — this  man  who  called  himself  my  husband?  Had 
he  not  thrown  me  over,  the  cur,  for  a  pink-cheeked 
schoolgirl;  she  of  the  photograph — about  whom  you 
lied  to  me,  you  and  your  precious  friend?  Yes — you 
lied — you  lied — and  deny  it  if  you  dare!" 

She  poured  out  the  words  tempestuously,  and  with 
such  rapidity,  that  Robin  had  hardly  caught  their  full 
significance. 

And  now  he  could  not  deny  that  in  a  measure  Zelie 
had  been  deceived.  It  had  been  his  own  fault,  too. 
He  had  been  so  anxious  to  get  Owen  safely  away  from 
Paris.  Zelie  could  be  told  by  letter  afterwards — it  was 
thus  that  he  himself  had  urged.  But  Zelie  had  found 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  93 

out  for  herself,  and  with  lamentable  results.  He  cursed 
himself  inwardly  for  a  fool  who  was  always  doing  the 
wrong  thing  with  the  best  intentions. 

He  cleared  his  throat  awkwardly.  "Look  here, 
Zelie,"  he  said,  "it  had  to  be,  you  know.  Your — friend- 
ship with  Owen  was  all  very  well  while  it  lasted,  but 
that  sort  of  thing  has  to  have  an  end.  Owen's  circum- 
stances were  all  changed,  and  that  is  why  he  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  Paris.  He  had  to  go  to  an  aunt  who 
is  dying.  She  will  make  him  her  heir,  but  she 
would  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  him  if  she  had 
known." 

"And  he  will  marry  the  pink-cheeked  schoolgirl 
— the  little  wax  saint?"  Zelie  put  the  question 
mockingly. 

Robin  inclined  his  head.  "That  is  what  Owen's 
aunt  desires.  It  is  really  a  condition  to  his  inheriting 
the  property.  You  don't  know,  perhaps,  that  Owen 
had  no  money  left  when  he  reached  England?  It's 
true,  however.  He  spent  his  last  louis  with  you.  So 
you  see  how  essential  it  is.  You  see,  too,  the  harm 
you  did — to  yourself — in  destroying  the  picture.  Owen 
would  have  been  able  to  give  you  money  at  once " 

"Hold  your  tongue — with  your  offer  of  money." 
Zelie's  voice  rose  scornfully,  and  a  hectic  spot  of  rage 
mounted  to  each  cheek.  "I  will  take  no  money — not 
a  brass  farthing  bit — from  this  cad  whom  I  could  force 
away  from  his  little  saint — with  a  word — you  under- 
stand me  ? — with  a  word.  I  have  but  to  say "  She 

was  about  to  refer  to  the  form  of  civil  marriage  that 
she  and  Owen  had  gone  through,  but  broke  off  sud- 
denly. "But,  no,"  she  corrected  herself,  "I  don't  want 
him — I  would  not  again  be  defiled  by  his  touch.  But 
I  hate  him — grand  Dieu!  how  I  hate  him!" 

She  was  the  personification  of  hate  as  she  stood 


94  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

there,  her  white  fists  clenched,  those  two  red  spots 
burning  upon  her  cheeks,  her  little  sharp  teeth  show- 
ing between  her  scarlet  lips.  "Bibi,  Bibi,"  she  mut- 
tered under  her  breath,  "give  me  my  revenge — quick !" 

She  choked  the  words  down  and  then  turned  fiercely 
upon  the  man.  "He  sent  you,"  she  asked,  "to  offer 
me  money — for  my  silence,  and  that  I  should  leave  him 
alone?" 

"I  had  to  go  to  Paris,"  Robin  replied,  feeling  the 
hatefulness  of  his  task.  "Owen  could  not  leave — his 
aunt  is  too  ill.  He  was  angry — very  angry — about 
the  picture.  But  he  wished  to  see  you.  I  went  to 
Versailles  and  found  that  you  had  left.  But  Mme. 
Lecomte  gave  me  your  address — here.  I  was  sur- 
prised." 

Zelie  bit  her  lip.  It  was  true  that  she  had  written  to 
her  friend,  giving  her  London  address.  The  action 
had  been  inspired  by  her  pride  in  her  new  grand 
friends. 

"So  you  bring  me  the  message — from  Owen?"  re- 
peated Zelie.  "It  is  as  I  have  said?  It  is  his  wish 
that  I  take  myself  out  of  his  life?" 

Once  more  Robin  inclined  his  head.  What  was  the 
good  of  beating  about  the  bush  ?  "He  wished  to  make 
reparation  to  you,"  he  said,  "later  on  when  he  can 
afford  to  do  so.  And  he  has  asked  me  to  give  you 
this  letter." 

He  handed  a  sealed  envelope  to  Zelie.  She  took  it, 
crushing  it  in  her  palm. 

"You  will  see  Owen?" 

"Yes— to-night." 

Zelie  was  laughing  now.  Her  laugh  sounded  hor- 
ribly ominous  in  the  man's  ears.  He  could  not  help 
thinking  that  she  had  something  in  her  mind  to  which1 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  95 

she  would  not  give  utterance — that  her  laugh  veiled 
a  threat. 

"Then,  M.  Robin,  you  may  tell  Owen  Mayne  that 
I  give  him  his  liberty.  And  may  he  live  long  to  en- 
joy the  kisses  of  his  little  wax  saint.  You  will  be  sure 
to  say  that?"  She  pronounced  the  words  with  biting 
emphasis.  "May  he  live  to  enjoy  his  money  and  his 
kisses." 

Robin  had  done  what  he  had  to  do,  but  he  left  the 
flat  in  Knightsbridge  with  a  sense  of  impending  ca- 
lamity. He  was  sure  that  Zelie  had  not  been  sincere, 
that  she  was  meditating  some  secret  blow.  As  he 
walked  slowly  away  his  heart  was  sore  within  him. 

As  for  Zelie,  no  sooner  had  the  door  shut  behind 
Robin  than  she  took  Owen's  letter  and  tore  it,  un- 
read, into  tiny  threads.  It  was  with  her  teeth  that  she 
first  rent  the  envelope  in  half.  And  all  the  while  she 
muttered  savage  curses  under  her  breath,  while  she 
called  upon  Bibi  to  be  quick  with  the  completion  of 
his  task. 

She  destroyed  Owen's  letter  unread.  Had  she  at- 
tempted to  master  its  contents  she  would  have  learnt 
that  Owen  repudiated  every  word  that  Robin  had  said. 
In  that  letter  he  revealed  to  her  the  whole  plot  that 
he  was  carrying  out  at  Selwood — how,  his  aunt  dead 
and  the  inheritance  his,  he  meant  to  break  his  engage- 
ment— should  that  engagement  ever  become  an  actu- 
ality— with  the  "little  wax  saint,"  and  return  to  his 
Zelie,  whom  he  adored  now  more  than  ever,  and  whom 
he  freely  forgave  for  the  destruction  of  his  picture. 

He  was  unable  to  take  Robin  into  his  secret,  for 
Robin  was  so  stubbornly  honest.  So  the  good  fellow 
would  speak  to  Zelie  of  a  separation,  and  all  manner 
of  other  foolish  things,  thinking  he  was  doing  his  duty 
by  his  friend,  but  Zelie  must  take  no  notice  of  this 


96  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

whatever.  Only  she  must  pretend,  in  order  that  Robin 
should  be  deceived.  And  then  it  would  not  be  long 
before  Owen  was  a  rich  man  and  at  liberty  once  more. 
What  a  good  time  they  would  have  when  that  happy 
day  came! 

The  letter  was  full  of  passionate  affection.  Yet  it 
was  torn  up  unread,  and  Zelie,  with  murder  in  her 
heart,  tossed  the  fragments  contemptuously  to  the 
back  of  the  grate. 

"Hasten,  my  Bibi,"  she  muttered  again  and  again. 
"Be  quick  and  sure  to  strike."  There  was  a  red  glow 
before  her  eyes — the  lust  of  revenge. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ROBIN  CLITHERO  journeyed  down  to  Buckinghamshire 
by  a  late  train  that  evening.  He  had  snatched  a 
hurried  dinner  at  the  station  and  he  was  tired,  dis- 
satisfied with  himself,  and  uneasy  in  his  mind. 

He  was  inclined  to  wish  that  he  had  not  interfered 
in  the  matter  of  Zelie  at  all.  It  had  been  all  his  own 
doing,  for  Owen,  if  anything,  had  sought  to  dis- 
courage him — so  he  might  have  spared  himself  the 
unpleasant  interview  of  that  afternoon,  as  well  as  the 
running  about  in  Paris,  the  playing  at  amateur  de- 
tective, which  had  wearied  him  and  prevented  him 
from  giving  the  requisite  attention  to  his  own  business. 
He  had  reached  Paris  early  on  the  Sunday  morning, 
having  travelled  over-night,  and  the  amount  of  work 
which  he  had  crammed  into  two  days  was  really 
astonishing. 

It  was  about  noon  on  the  preceding  Saturday  that 
the  news  of  the  destruction  of  Owen's  picture  had 
reached  Selwood  Manor.  It  had  come  in  the  form  of 
a  telegram  from  Blaize,  the  concierge,  which  had  been 
redirected  to  Owen  from  the  Delphic  Club. 

Robin  remembered  the  scene  quite  well.  They  were 
at  lunch,  himself,  Owen,  Lavender,  and  a  girl  friend 
of  the  latter's,  Diana  Ferrars,  who  had  ridden  over 
to  spend  the  afternoon  at  the  Manor.  Mrs.  Alderson 
always  took  her  meals  in  her  own  boudoir,  where  she 
spent  the  best  part  of  the  day  reclining  on  her  invalid 
couch. 

97 


98  TWO  APACHES  OF  PAKIS 

Owen  had  torn  open  the  envelope,  making  some 
half-jocular  apology,  but  an  ominous  change  had  come 
over  his  face  as  he  read  the  missive.  He  was  a  man 
who  was  sometimes  given  to  unrestrained  outbursts  of 
passion,  and  he  looked  just  then  as  if  he  might  be 
unable  to  hold  himself  in  check.  Rarely  had  Robin 
seen  so  dark  a  frown  settle  on  his  brow. 

Of  course  Lavender  noticed  it  too.  Telegrams  were 
rare  events  at  Selwood  Manor,  and  she  had  the  natural 
instinct  to  associate  them  with  evil  tidings.  There 
was  deep  concern,  a  tender  sympathy,  expressed  upon 
her  face — anxiety,  too — but  it  was  some  moments  be- 
fore she  ventured  to  ask  Owen  the  cause  of  his  trouble. 

He  was  able  to  choke  down  his  wrath,  though  it  was 
only  after  an  effort — palpable  enough  to  Robin.  He 
crushed  up  the  telegram  and  thrust  it  away  in  his 
pocket.  Then  he  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  a  poor 
attempt. 

"There  has  been  an  accident  to  my  picture — the 
'Chamois  Hunter,'  you  know,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid 
it  has  been  utterly  spoilt.  It's  a  pity,  and  it  means  a 
considerable  loss  to  me — but  it  was  quite  an  accident." 
He  seemed  eager  to  emphasise  the  point. 

Robin  could  not  refrain  from  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
may. He  set  as  much  store  by  Owen's  success  as  did 
Owen  himself.  He  was  proud  of  his  friend's  work. 
He  had  watched  it  as  it  developed  under  the  masterful 
hand  and  had  foreseen  it  as  the  picture  of  the  year. 
Furthermore,  he  knew  that  its  sale,  already  accom- 
plished, was  of  the  greatest  importance  to  Owen  just 
then. 

For  Owen  was  badly  in  debt,  and  he  had  handed 
over  to  Zelie  practically  all  the  money  that  remained 
to  him.  He  was  being  pushed  by  his  creditors,  and 
he  had  promised  to  pay  from  the  proceeds  of  this  sale. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  99 

Now  he  would  probably  have  to  ask  assistance  from 
his  aunt,  who,  so  far,  believed  that  her  nephew  was 
earning  a  comfortable  income.  Well,  so  Robin  argued 
with  himself,  that  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  Owen 
would  only  hurry  up  and  get  definitely  engaged  to 
Lavender — which  was  what  Mrs.  Alderson  wanted. 
But  they  had  been  at  Selwood  Manor  now  for  the 
best  part  of  three  weeks,  and  nothing  decisive  had 
happened.  So  perhaps  this  accident  was  for  the  best, 
after  all — it  might  precipitate  the  desired  end. 

Staunch  and  loyal  Robin!  Sincerely  and  from  the 
depth  of  his  honest  heart  he  desired  to  see  his  friend 
and  Lavender  engaged,  so  that  there  might  be  an  end, 
once  and  for  all,  to  that  liaison  with  a  dangerous  woman 
which  threatened  nothing  but  ill  as  long  as  it  lasted; 
also,  so  that  Owen  should  take  the  place  in  life  that 
was  his  due  as  natural  heir  to  the  Alderson  estates. 
Robin  was  convinced  that  he  would  do  credit  to  it. 

And  all  the  while  Robin  suffered — suffered  acutely. 
For  Lavender,  now  that  he  had  met  her  in  the  flesh, 
appeared  to  him  a  very  reincarnation  of  the  one  woman 
who  had  meant  anything  in  his  life — the  girl  whom  he 
had  loved  and  lost.  She  was  just  as  gentle  and  as 
pure,  and  her  voice  thrilled  him,  so  soft  it  was,  so  like 
in  its  intonation  to  that  which  haunted  his  dream.  He, 
who  had  vowed  never  to  love  again,  felt  that  all  his 
heart  was  drawn  to  Lavender  Percivale,  and  yet  his 
lips  were  closed  by  the  sacred  seal  of  honour  and 
friendship. 

Lavender  had  given  no  indication  of  her  feelings. 
She  was  naturally  retiring  of  disposition — even  a  trifle 
shy.  Robin  had  been  afraid  at  first  that  Owen  might 
offend  her  by  too  impetuous  love-making.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  had  behaved  with  commendable 


100  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

discretion.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Alderson  had  warned  him 
to  go  gently. 

The  truth  was — though  this  was  a  secret  of  the  man's 
own  heart — that  Owen  had  a  vague  hope  that  his  aunt 
might  be  induced  to  make  a  will  in  his  favour  without 
the  necessity  of  his  becoming  engaged  at  all.  Her 
tenure  upon  life  was  growing  daily  more  feeble,  and 
she  might  easily  recognise  the  danger  of  further 
delay. 

That  day,  as  soon  as  lunch  was  over,  Owen  showed 
Robin  the  telegram  which  he  had  received  from  Paris. 
It  had  been  written  in  English  in  M.  Blaize's  best 
style. 

"Your  Salon  picture  has  been  cut  to  pieces — ruined. 
It  was  Mme.  Zelie  who  did  it." 

Then  Owen's  rage  blazed  forth.  He  put  no  re- 
straint upon  his  tongue.  But,  though  Robin  hardly 
noticed  it  at  the  time,  his  anger  was  directed  against 
himself  and  his  friend  rather  than  against  the  author 
of  the  catastrophe.  Why  had  they  not  admitted  the 
whole  truth  to  Zelie  before  leaving  Paris?  That  was 
the  cause  of  all  the  mischief.  Of  course,  she  had  found 
it  out  and  had  used  the  first  weapon  that  came  to  her 
hand  to  avenge  herself.  It  was  like  her — what  he 
might  have  expected. 

"The  whole  truth  ?"  faltered  Robin,  not  understand- 
ing. 

Then,  even  in  his  passion,  Owen  realised  that  he  had 
nearly  betrayed  himself.  "As  there  had  to  be  a  scene," 
he  explained  hurriedly,  "we  should  have  got  it  over 
at  once.  Zelie  ought  not  to  have  found  things  out 
for  herself.  For  now  Heaven  knows  what  I'm  going 
to  do.  There's  Carlier  pressing  for  money — and  a 
host  of  others." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  101 

"What  you  have  to  do,  Owen,"  said  Robin,  simply, 
"is  to  hurry  up  matters  here.  Your  aunt  will  sympa- 
thise over  the  picture  and  she'll  put  everything  straight 
for  you  as  soon  as  her  own  wishes  are  realised.  As  for 
Zelie — the  vicious  little  devil — you  are  well  rid  of  her, 
even  at  such  a  terrible  price." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  grumbled  Owen;  "and,  of 
course,  you're  right,  Robin.  You  always  are.  It's  an 
infernally  aggravating  characteristic  of  yours.  But 
don't  you  see,  man,  that  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Paris?" 

Robin  saw  no  necessity  for  such  a  course  and  said 
so  forcibly.  He  had  already  arranged  to  cross  the 
Channel  that  night,  having  some  business  of  his  own 
to  attend  to.  Ever  ready  to  devote  himself  to  the 
cause  of  friendship,  he  suggested  that  he  should  hunt 
up  Zelie  and  take  the  whole  unpleasant  duty  upon 
himself. 

It  needed  a  good  deal  of  argument,  however,  before 
Owen  yielded,  and  then  it  was  because  he  saw  a  certain 
humour  in  the  situation  which  appealed  to  his  love  of 
the  bizarre  and  eccentric.  He  would  write  a  letter  to 
Zelie,  in  which  he  would  reveal  the  exact  truth  to 
her,  telling  her  that  he  forgave  her  for  the  wanton 
damage  she  had  done,  and  that  she  was  the  only 
woman  upon  earth  whom  he  loved  or  could  ever  really 
love.  He  would  explain  his  reasons  for  secrecy  with 
regard  to  Robin,  and  make  it  quite  clear  to  her  that 
she  must  not  take  seriously  a  word  of  what  the  latter 
said. 

And  this  letter  it  was  which  had  been  duly  handed 
to  Zelie  and  which  she  had  torn  up  unread. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Robin  reached  Sel- 
wood.  Yet,  since  the  night  was  fine  and  the  spring 
air  soft  and  balmy,  he  decided  that  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  walk  the  mile  or  two  from  the  station  to  the  Manor. 


102  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

He  was  oppressed  with  a  feeling  of  despondency  and 
foreboding  of  evil  to  come,  and  he  wanted  to  shake 
off  these  ominous  thoughts. 

But  they  were  weighing  upon  him  more  heavily 
than  ever  when  he  turned  into  the  long  elm  avenue  that 
led  to  the  Manor,  and  which  was  one  of  its  greatest 
prides.  The  boughs  intertwined  above  his  head,  almost 
completely  shutting  out  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  as 
he  walked,  a  little  more  hurriedly  now,  he  could  fancy 
that  he  heard  footsteps  following  him. 

More  than  once  he  came  to  a  halt,  turning,  and  try- 
ing to  penetrate  the  darkness  behind  him  with  his  eyes, 
and  then  there  would  come  the  creaking  of  a  twig,  and 
he  could  imagine  that  someone  was  crouching  down 
among  the  trees  close  at  hand,  watching  him  from  some 
leafy  recess. 

"Is  anyone  there?"  He  called  the  words  aloud  at 
last,  stepping  aside  from  the  road  on  to  the  soft  sward 
at  a  spot  where  the  tall  elms  were  flanked  by  dense 
bush. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  he  could  have  sworn  that, 
following  his  words,  there  came  the  sound  of  hur- 
ried, retreating  steps  among  the  bushes. 

"I  expect  it's  nothing  more  than  a  rabbit  or  a  bird," 
he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  resumed  his  way.  "I'm 
getting  timid  as  well  as  morbid.  This  will  never  do." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  reached  the  Manor.  Owen 
was  waiting  up  for  him,  the  rest  of  the  household 
having  retired  to  bed.  Owen  hurried  his  friend  into 
the  dining-room,  where  supper  had  been  thoughfully 
laid  for  the  traveller. 

"Well?"  inquired  Owen,  anxiously. 

"It's  all  right,"  responded  Robin,  trying  to  adopt  a 
cheerful  manner.  "I  saw  Zelie  and  told  her.  I  can't 
say  I  had  a  good  time.  She's  in  London — looking  out 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  103 

for  an  engagement.  She  told  me  to  say  that  she  gives 
you  your  liberty — but  she  didn't  say  it  nicely." 

"Did  you  give  her  my  letter?"  interrupted  Owen 
anxiously. 

"Yes." 

Owen  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "That's  all  right," 
he  said.  The  next  moment  he  was  acting  his  part 
once  more.  "Poor  Zelie,"  he  muttered,  "so  this  is 
the  end." 

"And  you?"  asked  Robin,  scrutinising  his  friend's 
handsome  face  with  some  eagerness,  although  his  limbs 
quivered.  He  was  bracing  himself  to  hear  the  answer 
he  expected.  "Are  you  and  Lavender  engaged?" 

"Not  yet,"  was  the  answer,  given  almost  sullenly. 
"I've  not  found  an  opportunity  to  speak.  My  aunt  has 
been  very  ill.  She  talked  to  me  to-day  about  her  will 
— and  other  matters.  I've  promised  to  speak  to  Lav- 
ender— to-morrow.  Aunt  Anne  doesn't  know  if 
Lavender  cares  for  me,  and  I've  been  afraid  to  risk 
things  by  being  too  precipitate.  But  we  shall  see — 
to-morrow." 

Later,  as  he  partook  of  some  supper,  Robin  men- 
tioned how  he  had  fancied  himself  shadowed  as  he 
came  through  the  park.  "I'm  getting  awfully  imagi- 
native," he  said. 

But  Owen  looked  serious.  "It's  curious,"  he  re- 
marked, meditatively,  "but  I  had  exactly  the  same  ex- 
perience this  afternoon.  I  felt  convinced  that  there 
was  someone  hanging  about  in  the  bushes.  There 
have  been  several  burglaries  in  the  neighbourhood 
lately — so  I'm  told.  Still,  I  expect  you're  right,  and 
it  was  only  a  rabbit.  Let  us  hope  so." 


CHAPTER  XV 

"I'M  afraid  we  can  no  longer  say  that  it's  a  matter  of 
months.  More  likely  weeks,  or  perhaps  even  days." 
The  speaker  was  Dr.  Murray,  Mrs.  Alderson's  medical 
adviser.  He  had  been  in  daily  attendance  since  the 
beginning  of  the  week. 

Owen  Mayne,  who,  although  himself  a  guest,  was 
acting  as  host,  had  accompanied  the  doctor  to  the  door, 
and  was  standing  chatting  for  a  few  moments  before 
the  latter  stepped  into  the  neat  brougham  that  awaited 
him. 

"It  will  be  a  sad  loss  to  the  county,"  Dr.  Murray 
continued,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  "for  there  never 
was  a  better  beloved  woman.  Her  one  desire  is  al- 
ways to  make  people  happy  and  to  have  smiling  faces 
about  her.  Poor  Miss  Percivale — she'll  feel  it  in- 
tensely." 

"You  haven't  warned  her,  of  course?"  asked  Owen. 
"It  would  do  no  good  to  sadden  her  just  now." 

"No,"  replied  the  doctor,  "but,  of  course,  she  knows 
that  the  end  cannot  be  long  delayed.  Well,  good-bye ; 
remember  I  can  always  come  at  the  shortest  notice  if 
I  am  wanted."  Dr.  Murray  stepped  into  the  brougham, 
which  was  soon  lost  to  sight  in  the  long  elm  avenue. 

Owen  stood  for  a  few  moments  at  the  door,  gazing 
with  unseeing  eyes  over  the  smooth,  broad  lawn  that 
sloped  down  to  a  tiny  lake  and  to  a  background  of  tall 
pines. 

But  his  thoughts  were  not  with  the  dying  lady;  he 
104 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  105 

was  allowing  his  mind  to  wander  to  far-away  Paris, 
to  the  warmth  of  his  studio  and  to  the  white  figure  of 
a  siren  perched  upon  a  rock,  her  hands  entwined  in  the 
flowing  meshes  of  her  black  hair. 

"The  witch,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  a  frown  upon 
his  brow.  "But  I  mustn't  think  of  her  as  she  appears 
in  my  unfortunate  picture.  That  chamois  hunter  has 
hunted  his  last.  Fool  that  I  was,  not  to  have  told  her 
everything  at  once.  But  I  think  I've  made  matters 
all  right  by  my  letter.  She'll  understand  and  will  wait 
till  I  can  go  to  her — with  my  pockets  full  of  money. 
But  fancy  Zelie  being  in  London — with  Eve  de 
Freyne  of  all  people.  However,  I'm  sure  she'll  act 
discreetly,  and  not  attempt  to  write  me  or  see  me — as 
I  asked  her.  She's  clever  as  they  make  them  and 
knows  what's  to  her  own  interest." 

"So  you've  just  got  to  wait,  my  dear,"  he  went  on, 
after  a  pause,  "while  I  play  out  my  blackguardly  game 
here,  deceiving  a  charming  old  lady,  who  is  on  the 
brink  of  eternity,  and  an  innocent  girl,  who  has  an 
uncomfortable  way  of  making  one  feel  ashamed  of 
oneself.  Yes,  Robin  was  right  when  he  said  it  was  a 
low  trick,  and  Robin  will  loathe  me  when  he  knows 
the  truth.  But  it's  all  for  your  sake,  Zelie."  He 
clenched  his  fists.  "I  regret  nothing.  I'd  stake  my 
soul  for  you — my  very  soul !" 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  made  his  way  slowly  to 
the  bright  and  sunny  boudoir  facing  the  other  side  of 
the  house,  where  he  knew  he  would  find  Mrs.  Alder- 
son,  Lavender,  and  Robin.  The  girl  looked  up 
anxiously  as  he  entered  the  room.  She  knew  that  he 
had  been  talking  with  Dr.  Murray. 

"Murray  reports  well  of  our  patient,"  he  lied,  anxious 
to  dissipate  Lavender's  fears,  and  knowing  quite  well 
that  Mrs.  Alderson  had  no  illusions  as  to  her  condi- 


106  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

tion.  "He  has  to  go  to  some  meeting  or  other,  or  he'd 
not  have  hurried  away  directly  after  lunch." 

Mrs.  Alderson  lay  upon  her  sofa,  the  sofa  upon 
which  the  greater  part  of  her  days  were  spent.  She 
was  very  feeble  and  not  allowed  to  walk  much ;  for  the 
last  four  years  she  had  been  a  chronic  invalid,  suffer- 
ing from  a  complicated  form  of  heart  disease,  which 
had  followed  an  attack  of  rheumatic  fever. 

She  was  small  and  frail,  but  delightful  to  look  upon. 
She  had  silver-grey  hair,  always  carefully  dressed 
high  on  her  head,  hair  that  reminded  one  of  nothing 
so  much  as  that  of  some  stately  lady  of  old  times. 
Mrs.  Alderson  was,  in  every  way,  like  a  picture,  from 
her  slender,  delicate  figure  to  her  smooth,  white  brow 
and  clear-cut  features. 

She  smiled  now  as  Owen  crossed  to  Lavender's  side 
and  stood  talking  in  an  undertone  to  the  girl.  What 
a  handsome  couple  they  made !  It  had  not  taken  long 
for  Owen,  by  his  natural  charm  of  manner,  to  win 
her  heart. 

"I  mustn't  be  so  cruel  as  to  keep  you  two  young  men 
indoors  all  the  afternoon,"  she  said.  "This  is  my 
quiet  hour,  you  know,  when  Lavender  reads  to  me  or 
we  chat  together  on  all  manner  of  things.  Perhaps, 
Owen,  you  and  Mr.  Clithero  would  like  to  take  a  ride 
and  get  back  in  time  for  tea.  After  that  I  can  spare 
Lavender  to  you  for  a  little." 

She  cast  a  meaning  glance  at  her  nephew.  It  was 
evidently  meant  to  remind  him  of  his  promise.  Then, 
as  the  two  men  were  about  to  take  their  departure, 
Mrs.  Alderson  called  them  back  to  ask  a  question  which 
had  just  occurred  to  her. 

"By  the  way,  Owen,"  she  said,  "did  you  tell  Mr. 
Clithero  about  the  entertainment  at  Chamney  to-mor- 
row? The  invitation  came  while  you  were  away," 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  107 

she  went  on,  addressing  Robin.  "Lavender  wanted 
to  refuse  because  I've  not  been  so  well,  but  Miss 
Ferrars  is  very  anxious  for  her  to  go.  There  are  bound 
to  be  all  sorts  of  curious  people  there,  and  I've  no 
doubt  that  you,  as  an  artist  and  a  Bohemian" — she 
smiled  and  shook  her  forefinger  at  him — "will  be  in- 
terested. Besides,  both  Owen  and  I  owe  a  good  deal 
to  Lord  Martyn,  who  is  giving  the  party." 

Owen  laughed.  "Oh,  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it. 
But  you're  quite  right,  my  dear  Aunt  Anne,  for  the 
entertainment  is  bound  to  be  a  peculiar  one.  Martyn 
is  such  a  queer  fish.  But,  as  you  say,  we  have  every 
reason  to  be  grateful  to  him.  If  it  hadn't  happened 
that  he  was  your  neighbour  and  that  he  knew  of  me 
in  Paris  you  would  probably  never  have  found  me 
out  at  all  or  have  thought  of  writing  to  me.  Yes, 
Martyn  is  a  good  fellow,  but  I'm  afraid  he  makes  rather 
a  point  of  shocking  people,  doesn't  he?  I've  heard 
some  queer  stories  about  him  and  his  doings  since  I've 
been  here."  Owen's  pose,  in  the  presence  of  his  aunt, 
was  that  of  a  scrupulous  observer  of  the  proprieties. 

Owen  and  Robin  took  their  departure  after  this, 
accepting  Mrs.  Alderson's  suggestion  of  an  hour's  ride 
across  the  fine  open  country  which  lay  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Selwood  Manor. 

Lavender  seated  herself  at  once  by  the  side  of  the 
invalid  and  opened  the  book  which  she  was  in  course 
of  reading  aloud.  But  she  had  not  read  many  pages 
before  she  noticed  that  the  old  lady  had  closed  her 
eyes  and  was  sleeping  peacefully,  a  smile  upon  her  thin 
lips. 

Lavender  allowed  the  book  to  drop  upon  her  knees 
and  sat  very  still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  gazing 
straight  in  front  of  her.  A  mirror  upon  the  opposite 
wall  reflected  her  beautiful  face  and  graceful  figure. 


108  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Lavender  was  very  fair  and  her  features  were 
Madonna-like  in  their  innocence  and  purity.  Her  face 
was  oval,  her  eyes  blue  and  dreamy,  her  lips  tenderly 
sensitive.  She  might  have  been  Mrs.  Alderson's  own 
daughter,  because  of  the  similarity  of  disposition  be- 
tween the  two,  as  well  as  the  great  love  they  bore 
each  other. 

Yet  it  was  little  more  than  three  years  that  Lavender 
had  lived  under  the  roof  of  Selwood  Manor.  She  had 
come  there  before  she  was  nineteen,  and  she  was  now 
nearing  her  twenty-second  birthday. 

She  had  not  gone  through  life  without  knowing  its 
sadder  side.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  former  vicar 
of  Selwood.  Her  mother  had  been  a  great  friend  of 
Mrs.  Alderson's,  who  had  stood  as  Lavender's  god- 
mother. 

Unfortunately,  when  Lavender  was  eleven  or  twelve 
years  old,  things  had  gone  amiss  with  the  Percivales. 
The  vicar  had  become  involved  in  certain  shady  finan- 
cial transactions  in  which  he  had  not  only  lost  the  little 
fortune  of  which  he  was  possessed,  but  suffered  in 
honour  as  well.  He  was  innocent  of  actual  offence, 
as  all  who  knew  him  were  aware,  but  he  was  tech- 
nically guilty  of  complicity  with  the  rogues  who  had 
defrauded  him.  The  ruin  of  many  besides  himself  was 
laid  at  his  door.  He  had  to  appear  in  court,  and, 
though  he  was  absolved  of  personal  blame,  the  shame 
of  it  broke  him  both  physically  and  mentally. 

Mrs.  Alderson  and  her  husband,  who  was  alive  at 
that  time — a  hard-riding,  genial  old  country  squire — 
did  their  best  for  the  vicar  not  only  out  of  personal 
sympathy  but  because  of  their  affection  for  Mrs.  Per- 
civale  and  for  Lavender,  a  delicate,  pretty  little  crea- 
ture who  had  won  her  way  to  their  hearts.  But  the 
vicar  was  too  proud  to  accept  assistance  from  his 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  109 

friends,  and,  with  his  wife  and  child,  he  had  drifted 
away  from  Selwood,  losing  himself  and  them  in  the 
world  against  which  he  had  not  the  strength  to  fight. 

The  years  that  followed  were  black  and  bitter,  and 
Lavender  could  never  think  of  them  without  a  shud- 
der. In  her  childish  memories  she  always  seemed  to 
be  moving  from  place  to  place,  never  making  long  so- 
journ anywhere.  She  had  been  to  school,  but  had  soon 
been  removed  from  it  because  the  expense  was  too 
great.  Her  mother  had  then  taken  her  education  in 
hand,  but  Mrs.  Percivale  was  weak  and  sickly,  and 
her  husband  was  warned  that  unless  she  could  be  sent 
out  of  the  country  to  a  warmer  climate  she  was  not 
likely  to  survive  another  winter. 

It  was  this  verdict  of  the  doctor's  which  brought 
about  the  final  catastrophe.  Whatever  the  late  vicar's 
faults  may  have  been  there  was  no  doubt  about  the 
love  he  bore  for  Lavender's  mother.  It  was  for  her 
sake  that  he  stepped,  open-eyed  this  time,  off  the  path 
of  honesty. 

One  day  he  yielded  to  temptation.  He  stole — stole 
foolishly,  almost  without  taking  means  to  avoid  de- 
tection, almost  as  if  he  were  proud  of  what  he  did. 

He  was  arrested  before  he  had  time  to  leave  the 
country  with  his  wife  and  child.  Charged  at  the  police 
court  he  made  no  attempt  to  deny  his  guilt,  but  pleaded 
that  what  he  had  done  was  to  save  a  human  life. 

Here  fate,  as  it  will  do,  made  cruel  sport  of  him. 
For,  instead  of  saving  his  wife's  life,  his  action  brought 
her  to  her  death-bed.  Mrs.  Percivale  died,  and  was 
mercifully  spared  the  knowledge  of  her  husband's 
conviction  and  sentence  to  twelve  months'  imprison- 
ment. 

He  did  not  live  to  complete  his  sentence,  but  he  held 
his  head  high  till  the  end,  refusing  to  acknowledge  that 


110  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

he  had  committed  any  sin.  As  for  Lavender,  the 
sensation  caused  by  the  case  brought  her  to  the  notice 
of  Mrs.  Alderson,  now  a  widow,  who  came  forward  and 
offered  to  adopt  the  unfortunate  felon's  daughter. 

And  now  the  end  was  drawing  very  near;  Mrs. 
Alderson  had  made  no  secret  of  it  with  the  girl.  But 
she  was  not  afraid  of  going  as  long  as  she  was  assured 
that  she  was  leaving  Lavender  happy. 

Was  Lavender  disposed  to  return  the  love  which 
Owen  had  declared  himself  ready  to  bestow  ?  That  was 
the  question  which  harassed  the  mind  of  the  dying 
woman.  She  had  been  waiting,  watching — allowing 
matters  to  follow  their  normal  development.  Did 
Lavender  care? 

Mrs.  Alderson  opened  her  eyes  dreamily.  Lavender 
was  still  sitting  upright  in  her  chair,  the  open  book 
lying  idly  upon  her  knees.  Her  thoughts  were  evi- 
dently far  away.  She  had  not  noticed  that  Mrs.  Al- 
derson was  awake. 

There  was  a  smile  hovering  about  her  lips,  and 
presently  she  murmured  a  question  to  herself,  mur- 
mured it  aloud. 

"Does  he  love  me  ?  Oh,  I  wonder  if  he  really  loves 
me?" 

Mrs.  Alderson  heard,  and  then  she  drew  a  deep 
breath,  a  sigh  of  thanksgiving.  "I  have  asked  no 
more  of  God  than  this,"  she  whispered,  "that  you 
should  love  one  another.  And  God  has  granted  my 
prayer." 

"Oh,  mother,  I  didn't  know  you  were  awake." 
Lavender  fluttered  to  her  feet,  tumbling  the  book  to 
the  floor,  and  then,  a  rich  flush  mantling  her  cheeks, 
stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  was  awake,  and  I  overheard  what  you 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  111 

said.  Wasn't  it  indiscreet?  But  come,  my  darling, 
come  and  sit  down  by  my  side  again." 

"Yes,  mother.  Shall  I  go  on  reading  to  you?" 
Lavender  fumbled  with  the  pages  of  the  book,  bending 
over  it  to  hide  her  blush. 

Mrs.  Alderson  stretched  out  her  hand  and  rested  it 
upon  that  of  the  girl.  "No,  Lavender,  I  don't  want 
to  be  read  to,"  she  said  softly.  "I'd  like  you  to  talk 
to  me — of  him.  I'm  sure  you'll  be  happy  to  share  your 
secret  with  me." 

Lavender  gave  a  little  fluttering  sigh,  and  then 
yielded  herself  to  the  delight  of  talking  of  her  love. 
She  could  not  say  when  the  knowledge  of  it  had  first 
come  to  her,  but  she  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  known 
Owen  long  before  he  ever  came  to  Selwood  Manor — 
she  had  seen  him  in  her  dreams,  he  had  been  the  fairy 
prince  of  the  fairy  castle  that  all  girls  build  for  them- 
selves. 

"But  do  you  think  he  cares  for  me  as  I  care  for 
him,  mother?"  she  murmured.  "That's  what  I'm  not 
sure  about.  You  see,  he  hasn't  said  a  word  to  me  yet, 
and  sometimes  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I'm  not  good 
enough  for  him,  I,  who,  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
kindness,  might  have  been  in  the  workhouse  by  now — 
I" — she  lowered  her  eyes — "whose  father  died  in 
prison.  Does  he  know  all  these  things  about  me, 
mother  ?  Oh,  you've  told  him  the  truth,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Owen  knows  your  story,"  Mrs.  Alderson  com- 
forted. "I  have  told  him  every  word  of  it.  He  said 
that  he  was  sure  your  father  was  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning." 

"Ah,  that  was  good  of  him,  good  and  kind,"  sighed 
the  girl,  reassured.  "And  he's  so  handsome.  I'm 
sure  he  has  just  the  face  of  a  really  great  artist.  Don't 
you  think  he's  very  handsome,  dear  ?" 


"His  mother,  my  sister  Margaret,  was  a  beautiful 
woman,"  Mrs.  Alderson  said,  "and  Owen  is  like  his 
mother.  I  recognised  the  likeness  immediately,  and  it 
made  the  boy  very  dear  to  me.  For  I  loved  my  sister, 
Lavender,  and  the  fact  that  she  and  I  were  estranged 
from  each  other  troubled  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 
I  don't  think  I've  ever  spoken  to  you  of  our  quarrel — 
it  is  a  subject  that  I  have  not  cared  to  allude  to." 

Mrs.  Alderson  pressed  her  hand  to  her  brow  for  an 
instant,  then  continued:  "You  see,  Margaret  and  I 
had  always  been  on  the  best  of  terms  together,  but 
when  I  married  her  manner  changed,  and  though  I 
begged  her  to  tell  me  why  she  would  never  say  a  word. 
She  thought  I  knew,  that  I  understood,  but  I  didn't. 
It  was  all  a  mystery  to  me.  And  then  she  went  abroad, 
and  from  France,  where  she  was  living,  wrote  me  a 
hard  and  cruel  letter  in  which  she  said  that  she  hoped 
never  to  see  me  again.  She  married  in  France  and 
had  one  child — that  is  Owen — whose  birth  cost  her  her 
life.  They  were  in  Paris  then,  for  Mr.  Mayne  had 
French  relations.  But  I  learned  that  the  father  and 
the  boy  drifted  away  soon  afterwards,  and  Owen  might 
have  passed  out  of  my  life  altogether  had  I  not  acci- 
dentally heard  of  him  through  Lord  Martyn." 

The  old  lady  paused  and  sighed.  "It  was  only  after 
my  husband's  death,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  discovered 
the  reason  for  my  sister's  anger.  She,  too,  had  been 
in  love  with  Francis — before  he  married  me — and 
imagined  that  I  had  weaned  his  affections  from  her. 
I'm  afraid  he  must  have  given  her  some  excuse  for 
believing  that  he  cared — that  is,  if  I  can  judge  from 
the  letters  which  I  found."  Two  bright  spots  of 
colour  came  to  the  old  lady's  cheeks  as  she  spoke. 

"So  you  see,"  she  resumed,  "from  the  time  of  my 
marriage  till  her  death  Margaret  imagined  that  I  had 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  113 

wilfully  robbed  her  of  the  man  she  loved.  She  died 
believing  me  a  cruel,  heartless  woman,  and  that  is  the 
tragedy  of  it,  for  I  loved  my  sister  dearly.  That's  the 
story,  Lavender,  and  now  you  know  why  I  was  so 
eager  to  see  Owen  before  I  died,  why  I  wanted  to  make 
up  to  him  for  the  pain  that  his  mother  suffered  on  my 
account.  And  it  is  my  one  remaining  wish  that  he  and 
you,  my  two  dear  children,  shall  fall  in  love  with  each 
other,  so  that  Selwood,  with  all  its  responsibilities,  may 
be  left  in  capable  hands." 

"And  now  kiss  me,  dear  child,"  the  old  lady  con- 
cluded, "for  since  you  love  Owen  everything  will  be 
well.  God  has  granted  my  wish." 

Lavender  bent  and  kissed  the  smooth  brow  of  the 
old  lady.  "Oh,  I  should  be  so  happy,"  she  murmured, 
"if  I  was  sure  that  Owen  cared  for  me  as  I  care  for 
him.  But  sometimes — I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it 
— I'm  almost  afraid." 

Mrs.  Alderson  stroked  Lavender's  hair  lovingly  as 
the  girl  bent  over  her.  "When  we  are  in  love  we  are 
frightened  of  shadows,"  she  comforted.  "I  dare  say 
you  are  right,  and  that  Owen  was  thinking  of  those 
unhappy  days  that  you  lived  through,  my  child.  He 
was  so  sorry  for  you  when  I  told  him  of  them.  So 
there,  I  don't  think  you  need  worry  yourself  any  more 
about  it." 

Mrs.  Alderson's  couch  was  drawn  up  close  to  the 
window,  a  window  that  looked  out  upon  a  carefully 
tended  flower  garden,  with  a  blackground  of  wood  and 
undulating  hills.  The  afternoon  sun  was  streaming  in, 
shimmering  on  Lavender's  fair  face.  The  old  lady 
lifted  herself  a  little  and  gazed  into  the  garden. 

"If  I'm  not  very  much  mistaken,"  she  said,  "our 
two  young  friends  have  come  back  from  their  ride,  and 
are  strolling  about  in  the  garden  at  this  very  moment. 


114,  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

I  suppose  they're  afraid  of  intruding  before  the  tea 
hour.  If  I  were  you,  Lavender  dear,  I'd  join  them. 
Send  Mr.  Clithero  in  to  have  a  chat  with  me.  I  like 
Mr.  Clithero — there's  a  solid  honesty  about  him  which 
appeals,  and,  besides,  he's  so  devoted  to  Owen." 

Lavender  needed  no  second  invitation.  She  flut- 
tered to  the  window,  watching  for  herself  the  two  tall 
figures  sauntering  up  the  garden  path,  then,  smiling 
and  whispering  tender  words,  she  again  kissed  the  old 
lady  and  ran  lightly  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"WHAT'S  wrong  with  you,  old  chap?  You've  been 
awfully  glum  all  day — not  a  bit  yourself.  Haven't  I 
been  behaving  to  your  satisfaction  ?" 

Owen  Mayne  put  the  question  with  that  half-satirical 
touch  in  his  voice  which  was  rarely  absent  in  his  deal- 
ings with  Robin.  The  two  young  men  were  strolling 
in  the  garden  and  smoking,  waiting  for  the  gong  that 
would  summon  them  in  to  tea. 

"I?  Oh,  I'm  all  rght,"  responded  Robin,  but  some- 
what evasively.  "Don't  worry  about  me,  Owen.  I 
was  really  thinking  that  it  wasn't  much  good  my 
having  come  back  to  Selwood.  I'm  only  in  the  way 
here,  after  all.  There's  nothing  more  that  I  can  do. 
You're  quit  of  Zelie — at  least,  I  hope  so — and  you've 
only  got  to  go  ahead  and  make  Lavender  your  wife, 
and  the  sooner  the  better.  I  believe  you  are  really 
growing  to  care  for  the  little  Puritan — as  you  called 
her.  And  as  for  her — she  adores  the  very  ground  you 
walk  on.  I'm  sure  of  it,  in  spite  of  your  doubts.  It's 
all  falling  out  just  as  it  should — and  I — I'm  delighted. 
You  are  clear  of  a  ghastly  encumbrance,  you'll  settle 
down  as  master  of  a  big  estate,  you'll  be  rich  and  have 

a  charming  wife Jove,  Owen,  but  you  are  a  man  to 

be  envied !  I  shall  go  back  to  France  happy  on  your  ac- 
count— and  hers — oh,  quite  happy." 

He  spoke  heartily,  and  yet  there  was  something 
115 


116  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

strained  and  unnatural  in  his  voice.  Owen  glanced  at 
him  curiously. 

"So  you're  really  glad,  Robin?"  he  asked.  "You're 
not  sorry  you  refused  the  offer  I  made  you?  Do  you 
remember — that  you  should  take  my  place?" 

Robin  shook  his  head  with  decision.  "No,  no,"  he 
said,  "never  that.  I  should  have  hated,  loathed  my- 
self. I  don't  think  you  meant  it  seriously — you  couldn't 
have." 

Owen  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Well,  well,"  he  said, 
"what  had  to  be — had  to  be.  You've  been  a  very  good 
friend  to  me,  Rob,  and  I'm  grateful.  You'll  remember 
that,  won't  you,  old  chap,  whatever  happens  in  the 
future  ?  Do  you  know,  there  are  times" — his  eyes  were 
reflective — "times  when  I  wish  that  we  could  cut  the 
last  four  months  out  of  our  lives  altogether." 

He  slashed  at  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the  path  with 
a  twig  which  he  had  picked  up.  "They  were  jolly 
days,  weren't  they,"  he  muttered;  "the  irresponsible 
studio  days  when  nothing  mattered?" 

"There  are  better  things  in  store  for  you,  old  fel- 
low," responded  Robin  sturdily.  "You've  drawn  a 
lucky  number  in  the  lottery.  Stick  to  it.  As  for  me, 
I  shall  get  along  all  right  at  Fontainebleau — with  my 
work." 

He  broke  off,  because  at  that  moment  Lavender  ap- 
peared, a  graceful  figure  in  white,  running  across  the 
lawn  from  the  house.  A  moment  or  two  later  she 
was  by  their  side. 

She  delivered  her  message  breathlessly.  Mrs.  Alder- 
son  wanted  a  chat  with  Mr.  Clithero.  There  was 
nothing  strange  in  the  request.  The  old  lady  could 
never  see  much  company  together,  and  it  was  her  way 
to  arrange  pleasant  little  interviews  one  at  a  time. 

Robin  walked  slowly  to  the  house.    Once  he  turned 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  117 

and  noticed  that  Owen  and  Lavender  were  strolling 
away  together  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"It  is  all  as  it  should  be,"  he  muttered,  bowing  his 
head,  "but  I — oh,  why  must  I  stay  here — and  suffer? 
For  I  love  her  so — oh,  I  love  her  so!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  the  meanwhile  Owen  and  Lavender  wandered  off 
together,  their  feet  turning,  as  it  were  instinctively, 
towards  a  spot  in  the  garden  which  for  many  years 
past  had  gone  by  the  name  of  "The  Lovers'  Walk." 

This  was  really  a  long  cutting  in  the  wood  which 
bordered  one  side  of  the  garden,  and  Lavender  de- 
lighted in  the  spot,  especially  in  the  spring,  because 
of  the  wild  flowers  with  which  it  abounded.  The  soft, 
mossy  turf  was  always  carpeted  then  with  primroses, 
hyacinths,  bluebells,  and  violets.  There  was  a  little 
silvery  brook,  too,  that  flowed  murmuring  through  the 
dell. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  walk,  almost  hidden  by  tree 
and  bush,  there  was  a  life-sized  marble  statue  of  a  girl 
in  loose,  flowing  robes.  The  strange  thing  about  it 
was  that  no  one  could  say  when  or  by  whom  the  effigy 
had  been  set  up.  There  was  no  mention  of  it  in  the 
family  records.  But  though  nothing  was  actually 
known,  it  was,  naturally  enough,  believed  that  the  figure 
had  been  set  up  to  commemorate  a  bygone  tragedy. 

The  expression  of  the  face,  the  attitude,  all  lent 
colour  to  this  belief.  The  figure  was  represented 
standing,  with  arms  raised,  and  leaning  a  little  for- 
ward as  if  suddenly  arrested  by  the  sight  of  something 
that  terrified.  The  lips  were  slightly  parted,  the  eyes 
turned  down  with  a  look  of  fear  in  them  that  haunted. 
It  was  a  sweet  face,  very  delicate  and  classical,  and, 
altogether,  the  statue  was  a  fine  piece  of  work. 

118 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  119 

Nevertheless,  Lavender  was  glad  that  it  was  so  over- 
grown with  shrub  as  to  be  hardly  visible  till  one  came 
quite  near,  only  peeping  out  then  like  a  wan  ghost 
from  among  a  festoon  of  leafy  branches,  for  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  statue  brought  a  discordant  element,  a 
suggestion  of  pain,  into  a  spot  that  was  idyllic  in  its 
beauty. 

And  so  they  approached  the  "Lovers'  Walk,"  Owen 
and  Lavender,  walking  slowly  side  by  side,  not  talking 
much  as  they  went,  for  the  mind  of  each  was  busy  with 
its  own  reflections. 

The  girl  was  very  happy,  timidly,  deliciously  ex- 
pectant. Owen  cared  for  her — she  was  sure  of  that 
now ;  it  was  silly  of  her,  she  told  herself,  to  have  had 
any  doubt  of  it.  Mrs.  Alderson  had  quite  set  her  mind 
at  rest.  It  was  all  clear,  even  from  what  Owen  had 
whispered  to  her  when  Mr.  Clithero  had  turned  away, 
leaving  them  to  their  own  company. 

"Lavender,  I'm  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  a  chat 
with  you.  There's  something  I  want  to  say." 

Her  cheeks  had  flushed  pink — she  never  could  help 
that  tell-tale  blush ! — but  she  had  tried  to  look  uncon- 
scious as  she  murmured,  "Yes,  Owen,"  then,  casting 
down  her  eyes,  "Which  way  shall  we  go  ?" 

"To  the  Lovers'  Walk,"  he  had  replied  promptly, 
looking  down  into  her  face,  a  smile  upon  his  lips. 

"Oh,  yes — we  will  gather  primroses,"  she  had  cried, 
clapping  her  hands  together.  "I  want  some  for  the 
vases  in  the  boudoir.  Mother  loves  the  spring  flowers." 

"Sweet  simplicity,"  muttered  Owen  to  himself, 
pursing  his  lips  together,  but  he  drew  her  hand  gently 
under  his  arm,  and  so  they  made  their  way  in  silence 
to  the  spot  which  he  had  chosen,  the  spot  where  he 
had  decided  that  the  fateful  words  must  be  spoken. 

For  what  was  the  use  of  further  delay?    Lavender 


120  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

loved  him  and  was  ready  to  give  him  her  young  and 
fragrant  life.  But,  all  unexpectedly,  conscience  had 
pricked  him,  some  belated  appreciation  of  the  sin  he 
had  so  easily,  so  lightly  designed.  This  was  not  re- 
markable, for  Owen  was  thoughtless  and  irresponsible 
rather  than  flagrantly  unscrupulous. 

It  had  seemed  so  easy  and  simple — at  a  distance. 

It  was  an  afternoon  for  love  vows.  The  long  cutting 
in  the  wood  was  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  spring. 
The  path  by  the  brook  was  in  shade,  but  the  leafy 
branches  of  the  trees  glittered  as  if  they  were  spangled 
with  thousands  of  gems  as  the  sunrays  filtered  through. 
The  stream  made  soft,  murmuring  music,  an  accom- 
paniment to  the  twittering  of  birds  among  the  boughs. 

Lavender  had  soon  gathered  a  handful  of  pale,  dewy 
primroses.  Owen  watched  her  as  she  ran  from  tuft 
to  tuft,  her  feet  sinking  in  the  soft  moss.  Her  white 
dress  and  her  fair  hair,  only  partly  hidden  by  her  sun- 
bonnet,  were  in  delightful  harmony  with  the  dark  green 
background.  Owen's  artistic  eyes  appreciated  the 
scene.  Like  Zelie,  Lavender  was  slim  of  figure,  though 
she  had  nothing  of  the  feline — the  almost  serpentine — 
litheness  that  characterised  the  French  girl. 

But  Zelie  would  have  been  out  of  place  in  the  spring 
freshness  of  the  wood — she  would  have  presented  an 
element  of  discord.  Not  that  that  would  have  been 
an  offence  in  the  eyes  of  Owen,  to  whom  strong  dis- 
cords and  startling  unconventionalities  appealed;  in- 
deed, even  now,  he  was  figuring  Zelie  in  Lavender's 
place — Zelie,  black  clad,  a  panther  among  buttercups 
and  daisies !  What  a  fine  contrast ! 

"Are  they  not  beautiful?"  Lavender  came  to  him, 
holding  up  the  flowers  for  his  inspection.  But  he 
caught  her  hands  and  drew  her  to  him,  so  that,  with 


TWO  APACHES  OP  PARIS 

a  little  cry,  her  fingers  relaxed  and  the  primroses  fell, 
a  shower  of  gold,  to  her  feet. 

"You  are  beautiful,"  he  said;  "you  are  the  sweetest 
flower  of  all — my  flower.  I  love  you,  Lavender." 

They  were  spoken,  the  fateful  words,  born  of  deceit 
and  selfishness — the  burning,  lying  words  that  could 
never  be  unsaid  or  forgotten. 

Lavender  drew  a  deep  sighing  breath,  and  allowed 
her  head  to  drop  against  the  man's  shoulder.  He  could 
feel  the  fluttering  of  her  breast,  the  beating  of  her 
heart — the  heart  with  which  he  was  playing  so  cruelly. 

For  the  day  was  not  very  far  distant  when  that  heart 
would  bleed  for  the  insidious  blow  which  he  was  deal- 
ing now,  a  blow  that  was  veiled  with  a  kiss.  And  he 
did  not  attempt  to  disguise  the  truth  from  himself. 
He  knew  that  he  was  a  blackguard. 

"You  will  be  my  wife,  Lavender?"  he  whispered 

hoarsely.  "Oh,  my  dear "  he  lifted  her  head  and 

gazed  down  into  her  pure  blue  eyes — "you  need  not 
speak  a  word — not  a  syllable — if  I  have  frightened 
you — let  a  kiss  be  your  answer." 

Slowly  he  bent  his  head  still  lower,  his  arm  holding 
her  tightly  to  him.  And  so  their  lips  met. 

And  all  the  while  in  the  ears  of  the  man  the  water 
of  the  brook  flowing  at  his  feet  was  singing  a  monot- 
onous chant.  "He  betrayed  with  a  kiss — he  betrayed 
with  a  kiss — with  a  kiss — with  a  kiss — with  a  kiss." 
And  the  birds  chirped  mockingly  to  the  refrain,  while 
the  wind  whispered  it  to  the  trees. 

But  the  brook  was  singing  to  Lavender  too — a  glad 
song,  the  song  of  love  exultant,  while  the  very  beating 
of  her  heart  seemed  pulsed  back  to  her  by  nature  that 
rejoiced  for  her  rejoicing. 

The  moments  sped  by — moments  that  were  precious 
to  the  girl  in  her  new-found  earthly  paradise,  moments 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

that  for  the  man  were  charged  with  a  weight  of  self- 
reproach  of  which  he  had  not  deemed  himself  capable. 

For  Lavender  had  touched  some  chord  in  his  nature, 
of  the  very  existence  of  which  he  was  not  aware.  He 
did  not  love  her,  for  love  such  as  was  her  right,  such 
as  alone  might  be  offered  to  her,  was  a  stranger  to  his 
breast.  But  vaguely  the  very  purity  of  her  love  had 
affected  and  moved  him,  reaching  to  some  unprobed 
depth  of  his  being,  and  for  the  moment  he  hated  and 
despised  himself. 

They  strolled  on  by  the  brook,  forgetting  that  the 
hour  grew  late,  and  that  tea  at  the  Manor  must  long 
ago  have  been  served.  And,  after  a  while,  Owen 
crushed  down  the  voice  of  conscience  within  him,  let- 
ting himself  go  with  the  sheer  delight  of  having  this 
beautiful  young  creature  by  his  side  palpitating  with 
love  for  him,  bashfully  happy  to  lift  her  sweet  lips, 
untasted  till  now,  to  meet  the  ardour  of  his  kisses. 

At  last,  the  world  forgetting,  they  reached  the  point 
where  the  Lovers'  Walk  came  to  an  abrupt  termination 
in  the  thickness  of  the  wood.  And  here  the  glint  of 
white  among  the  bushes  and  undergrowth  suddenly 
caught  Owen's  eyes.  He  knew  of  the  existence  of 
the  statue,  but  had  never  had  the  curiosity  to  examine 
it  closely. 

Now,  before  the  girl  had  time  to  realise  what  he 
was  about  to  do,  Owen  seized  a  branch  and  drew  it 
aside,  laughingly  remarking  that  they  must  have  a 
look  at  the  guardian  spirit  of  the  grove. 

Lavender  gave  a  little  scream  as  she  found  herself 
gazing  at  the  white,  sad  figure  that  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing down  upon  them,  a  wan  ghost  of  disappointed 
love. 

"Oh,  Owen,"  she  cried,  with  a  shudder,  "I  didn't 
know  what  you  were  going  to  do.  Haven't  you  heard 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  123 

that  there's  a  superstition  about  this  statue?"  She 
gently  released  his  fingers  from  the  bough,  allowing  it 
to  sway  back.  "Let  us  go  away,  dear;  oh,  please, 
please,  let  us  go  away." 

He  laughed  at  her  fears,  himself  not  addicted  to 
superstitious  prejudices.  He  wound  his  arm  about  her, 
drawing  her  to  him,  but,  at  the  same  time,  turning  so 
that  they  no  longer  faced  the  offending  statue. 

"What  silly  fancies!"  he  scolded.  "As  if  a  statue 
could  do  any  harm!  But  tell  me,  darling,  what  is  it 
they  say?" 

"They  say,"  she  answered,  nestling  to  him,  "that  if 
lovers  who  have  just  plighted  their  troth — as  we  have 
done,  Owen — should  look  together  upon  the  statue 
some  evil  will  befall  them.  That's  why  the  bushes 
have  been  allowed  to  grow  up  all  around  it — it  has  been 
buried  in  foliage  for  years  and  years,  longer  than  any- 
one can  remember.  Oh,  Owen,  it's  only  a  silly  story, 
isn't  it?  You  don't  believe  in  omens  of  that  sort?" 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  he  replied,  with  a  laugh  that, 
nevertheless,  sounded  a  little  strained.  For  the  coinci- 
dence was,  at  least,  peculiar.  Did  not  evil  already 
threaten  ? 

"You  see,"  Lavender  went  on,  "the  story  goes  that 
the  lovers  who  gave  their  name  to  this  place  loved 
only  for  a  while.  It  was  he  that  failed.  But  she  never 
knew — she  was  true  and  faithful  to  the  end." 

"What  was  the  end?"  Owen  put  the  question  with 
assumed  carelessness. 

"He  was  found  lying  in  the  wood — dead.  He  had 
been  slain  in  a  duel.  She  found  his  body.  That  is 
what  you  see  in  the  statue.  The  poor  girl  is  looking 
down  at  her  dead  lover  lying  at  her  feet.  It's  such  a 
sad,  pathetic  little  story,  but,  oh,  Owen,  don't  let's 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

think  of  it  now.    It  seems  to  me  suddenly  as  if  the 
sun  had  gone  and  the  wood  is  dark  and  cold." 

He  led  her  away,  chiding  gently.  But  for  him,  too, 
the  glamour  of  the  day  was  done.  Once  more,  as  they 
followed  the  path  by  the  stream,  there  was  the  echo  of 
a  torturing  refrain  in  his  ears — nor  could  he  close  them 
against  it. 

"He  betrayed  with  a  kiss — with  a  kiss — with  a  kiss." 
And  as  he  walked  he  turned  his  head  to  the  spot 
where  a  white  glimmer  among  the  trees  betokened  the 
presence  of  the  ill-omened  statue.  He  could  see  the 
figure  in  his  mind's  eye,  bending  forward,  her  eyes 
horror-filled,  gazing  down  at  the  body  of  her  dead 
lover — the  lover  whose  love  had  failed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"HAVE  you  any  news  of  the  lost  papers,  Harry?" 
Stephen  Aldis  put  the  question  in  a  tone  that  was 
marked  by  more  than  a  little  anxiety.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  his  arrival  at  Chamney  Castle  that 
Thursday  morning — the  day  of  the  great  entertain- 
ment— that  he  had  been  able  to  have  a  word  alone  with 
his  host. 

He  had  originally  intended  to  journey  down  to 
Buckinghamshire  the  day  before,  accompanying  Mme. 
de  Freyne,  Zelie,  Cecily  Cuthbert,  and  one  or  two 
more  of  Lord  Martyn's  guests,  for  whom  special  car- 
riages had  been  reserved,  but  at  the  last  minute  he  had 
been  obliged  by  important  business  to  delay  his  de- 
parture. This  had  annoyed  him  not  a  little,  for  he  had 
been  looking  forward  to  an  afternoon  and  evening  in 
the  company  of  the  French  dancing-girl,  who  had 
captivated  him  so  suddenly  and  so  strangely. 

Poor  Cecily  had  been  almost  ruthlessly  thrust  aside, 
and  she  was  quite  conscious  of  the  fact.  Aldis,  accus- 
tomed as  he  was  to  being  made  much  of  by  the  other 
sex,  had  grown  careless  of  the  finer  feelings  of  those 
women  with  whom  he  had  episodes  of  affection  or  pas- 
sion ;  with  him  the  old  love  was  very  easily  put  by,  the 
new  as  easily  assumed. 

His  flirtations  had  all  been  so  ephemeral  and  were 
of  such  small  account  to  him;  he  could  not  see  why 
they  should  mean  more  to  the  other  party  concerned. 

It  was  true  that  with  Cecily  he  had  allowed  matters 
125 


126  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

to  go  rather  further  than  usual.  There  had  been  that 
suggestion  of  marriage.  It  was  not  he  who  had  made 
it,  but  he  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  deny  the 
rumour.  He  had,  indeed,  considered  the  feasibility  of 
such  an  event.  But  that  was  before  he  met  Zelie. 

He  was  very  fond  of  Cecily — no  less  fond  of  her  now 
than  before  he  knew  the  French  girl.  He  certainly 
had  no  intention  of  marrying  the  latter,  for  she  repelled 
him  even  while  she  attracted  him  so  powerfully.  Well, 
why  should  Cecily  object  to  an  interlude  of  the  sort? 
It  really  meant  nothing,  and  if  Cecily  were  wise  she 
would  not  worry  her  head  about  it.  She  could  win  him 
back  quite  easily  later  on,  if  she  were  not  foolish 
enough  to  give  way  to  jealousy.  That  was  the  one 
thing  he  could  not  bear — jealousy. 

He  had  done  his  best  to  hint  as  much  to  Cecily,  and 
because  she  was  very  quiet  over  it  with  him  and  did 
not  make  a  scene  he  was  happily  under  the  impression 
that  she  understood.  All  was  shaping  itself  as  he 
desired. 

But  he  did  not  see  Cecily  at  those  times  when  she 
allowed  her  real  feelings  to  come  to  the  surface.  He 
did  not  know  of  the  long  sleepless  nights  and  the  pillow 
bedewed  with  tears,  nor  did  he  notice  the  pallor  of  her 
cheeks,  because  she  understood  so  well  the  use  of 
cosmetics. 

It  was  her  nature  to  hide  her  true  self  from  the  man 
she  loved.  Upon  the  surface  she  was  the  shallow, 
light-hearted,  laughing  star  of  musical  comedy  that  the 
world  took  her  for,  but  below  this  there  were  unprobed 
depths  of  sentiment,  smouldering  fires  that  might  at 
any  moment  burst  forth  to  active  life.  Cecily  was 
hardly  conscious  of  them  herself,  save  for  the  dull 
ache  in  her  breast  when  she  realised  that  love  had 
proved  unkind. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  127 

Lord  Martyn  had  just  contrived  to  snatch  a  few 
moments  to  have  a  chat  with  his  friend.  They  were 
strolling  together  on  the  great  sunny  terrace  of  the 
castle  when  Aldis  put  his  question. 

"Have  you  any  news  of  the  lost  papers,  Harry?" 

Lord  Martyn  shook  his  head  gravely.  "I'm  sorry, 
Steve,  old  man,  no." 

Aldis  knitted  his  brow.  "Dash  it!"  he  muttered. 
"I'd  give  a  hundred  pounds,  Harry — five  hundred — 
for  this  not  to  have  happened.  And  it  was  all  my  own 
idiotic  fault." 

"It  was,"  agreed  Martyn,  who  always  spoke  his  mind 
frankly  when  occasion  demanded.  "What  on  earth 
possessed  you  to  put  those  letters  into  the  pocket  of 
my  coat  is  beyond  my  comprehension." 

"How  could  I  guess  the  coat  would  be  stolen  ?"  pro- 
tested Aldis.  Nevertheless,  he  hung  his  head  a  trifle. 
"It  was  a  mean  thing  ever  to  have  wanted  you  to  see 
the  letters  of  that  poor  little  girl  at  all,"  he  went  on, 
"and  I'm  ashamed  of  myself — I  really  am." 

"That's  because  you're  in  a  fix,"  said  Martyn 
cynically,  "and  don't  know  what  you  will  say  to  Lady 
Beatrice  when  you  meet  her.  Your  conscience  wouldn't 
have  pricked  you  if  things  hadn't  gone  wrong.  The 
devil  was  sick — you  know  the  old  saw." 

"I  dare  say  you're  right,"  said  Aldis  ruefully.  "Any- 
way, I  know  I'm  jolly  sick  with  myself  at  the  present 
moment.  But  I  give  you  my  word,  Harry,  I've  not 
shown  those  letters  to  another  living  soul.  You  do  be- 
lieve that,  don't  you?" 

Martyn  nodded,  gravely  blowing  a  smoke  ring  from 
between  his  lips.  He  was  smoking  one  of  his  invari- 
able black  cigars.  "It  was  just  your  infernal  vanity," 
he  remarked. 

"Not  only  that,"  Aldis  flushed  guiltily.    "You  were 


128  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

so  jolly  confident  that  Lady  Beatrice  was  the  last  girl 
in  the  world  to  commit  an  indiscretion.  You  were 
arguing  against  your  own  theories,  and  I  couldn't  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  put  you  right  with  them.  That's 
why  I  said  I'd  show  you  the  silly  letters  she  wrote  to 
me  years  ago — when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child. 
That's  why  I  brought  them  round  to  the  club  that 
evening  when  we  first  met  Zelie.  You  remember  we 
sat  talking  in  the  smoking-room,  and  I  was  just  about 
to  produce  them  when  someone  else  joined  in  the  con- 
versation. Your  coat  was  lying  by  my  side,  so  in  case 
I  didn't  get  another  opportunity  I  slipped  the  letters 
into  one  of  the  pockets.  I  knew  I  could  trust  you. 
But  you  never  knew  they  were  there,  and  were  not 
worrying  about  the  loss  of  your  coat  till  I  called  round 
in  the  morning  to  ask  for  the  wretched  things  back, 
and  then — oh,  it's  all  a  ghastly  nuisance." 

"It  may  be  a  good  deal  worse  than  that,"  com- 
mented Martyn,  pursing  his  lips.  He  liked  Stephen 
Aldis  as  much  as  he  liked  most  men,  and  he  never 
lost  his  temper — though  it  had  been  sorely  tried  in  con- 
nection with  this  particular  matter. 

"Worse— how?" 

"Why,  we  don't  know  that  the  letters  have  not 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  some  wretched  blackmailer, 
who  will  use  them  against  Lady  Beatrice.  Just  now, 
when  her  name  is  before  the  public,  her  engagement 
to  Sir  Donald  one  of  the  events  of  the  season,  her  por- 
trait in  all  the  papers — isn't  it  a  marvellous  opportunity 
for  an  unscrupulous  man  ?  My  name  and  address  were 
in  one  of  the  pockets.  There's  no  question  as  to  a 
thief  in  the  case.  I've  made  every  inquiry,  and  the 
coat  wasn't  merely  lost  or  taken  by  accident.  Of 
course,  I've  had  a  detective  on  the  scent,  too,  but  with 
the  usual  futile  result." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  129 

The  two  men  paused,  leaning  over  the  marble  balus- 
trade. Martyn  tossed  away  the  stump  of  his  cigar. 

"You'll  meet  Lady  Beatrice  to-day,  you  know,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  explained  Aldis  hastily. 
"We've  met  many  times  since — since  the  little  inno- 
cent interlude  of  the  past.  We've  laughed  over  it,  and 
agreed  that  it  should  all  be  forgotten." 

"And  I  suppose  Lady  Beatrice  imagines  that  her 
letters  have  long  ago  been  destroyed?" 

Again  Aldis  flushed.  Lord  Martyn,  in  his  blnnt 
way,  had  touched  the  mark,  hit  his  friend  on  the  raw. 
For  Stephen  Aldis  had  allowed  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer, 
with  whom  he  had  flirted — innocently  enough — in  the 
past,  to  imagine  that  those  foolish  and  incriminating 
letters  which  she  had  written  were  all  destroyed; 
whereas  in  his  self-conceit,  the  vanity  of  a  man  made 
much  of  by  women,  he  had  kept  them  as  souvenirs — 
trophies — of  his  conquest.  And  now  this  meanness, 
this  contemptible  littleness  of  his  character,  stood  re- 
vealed to  a  man  who,  of  all  men,  was  the  one  in  whose 
estimation  Aldis  wished  to  stand  high. 

For  Lord  Martyn  professed  to  believe  in  no  man's 
honour,  and  now  in  the  person  of  one  of  his  nearest 
friends  his  pessimist  theory  was  proved  correct. 

"That's  all  right,  Steve,"  said  Martyn,  breaking  the 
ominous  silence.  "I  quite  understand.  And,  of  course, 
I'll  do  everything  I  can  to  put  matters  right — if  any 
trouble  should  befall." 

It  was  upon  this  that  the  two  men  parted,  Aldis  all 
the  more  readily  because  at  that  moment  he  caught 
sight  of  the  lithe  figure  of  Zelie  slowly  making  her 
way  across  the  lawn  to  the  little  group  under  the 
trees.  She  was  in  the  company  of  a  man  whom  Aldis 
did  not  recognise,  a  tall,  fair  boy,  who  was  bending 


130  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

over  her  and  laughing  in  a  manner  that  indicated 
pleasant  intimacy.  The  actor  was  conscious  of  a 
twinge  of  jealousy  and  hastened  his  steps  across  the 
soft  turf  of  the  lawn. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  Martyn  made  his  way  back  to  the 
house  and  settled  himself  down  in  his  study. 

He  was  given  but  little  leisure.  He  had  not  been 
in  his  study  for  more  than  ten  minutes  before  his 
privacy  was  disturbed  by  a  sedate  old  butler,  who  en- 
tered the  room  nervously,  giving  evidence  by  his  man- 
ner of  a  disturbed  mind. 

"What's  the  matter,  Ronaldson?"  Martyn  glanced 
up  from  the  papers  on  the  desk  before  him. 

"If  you  please,  my  lord,  there's  a  man,  a  foreigner, 
who  wishes  to  see  you.  He  won't  give  his  name  or 
state  his  business,  but  he  says  it's  important.  He 
don't  speak  English,  and  I  had  to  get  Mrs.  Richards 
to  interpret.  I'd  have  packed  him  off,  seeing  that  it's 
to-day,  but  did  not  like  to  without  mentioning  it  to 
you.  He  looks  a  scamp,  my  lord." 

It  was  Lord  Martyn's  habit  to  see  anyone  who  asked 
for  him.  He  had  given  strict  instructions  that  no  one 
was  to  be  turned  away  from  his  door.  He  found  the 
cadgers  and  riff-raff  who  appealed  to  him  on  one  pre- 
text or  another  an  interesting  study. 

"You  may  show  the  fellow  in,  Ronaldson."  Just 
now,  with  those  incriminating  letters  still  to  be  re- 
covered, it  was  important  not  to  miss  any  casual  caller. 

The  butler  began  to  mutter  a  protest,  but  was  dis- 
missed with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  Martyn  resumed  his 
inspection  of  the  papers  on  his  desk.  Presently  Ronald- 
son  returned  and  ushered  an  ungainly  figure  into  the 
room. 

It  was  Bibi  Coupe-vide.  He  was  attired  in  a  tweed 
sut  of  aggressive  pattern  and  his  cravat  was  of  lurid 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  131 

hue.  He  carried  a  black  bowler  hat,  and  his  hands 
were  gloved.  The  effect  was  ridiculous — Bibi,  the 
Apache,  looked  out  of  his  element.  He  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  shave  clean,  and  his  receding  chin  was  pecu- 
liarly noticeable,  as  were  his  little  furtive,  twinkling 
eyes.  His  narrow  shoulders  were  hunched,  and  he 
slouched  more  than  ever  as  he  followed  the  butler  into 
the  study. 

Lord  Martyn  inspected  his  visitor  with  curiosity, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair.  The  fellow's  face  seemed 
familiar  to  him. 

"You  may  go,  Ronaldson,"  he  said  to  the  butler, 
then  he  addressed  Bibi  in  his  own  language. 

"You  wish  to  see  me?" 

The  Apache  shuffled  his  feet  and  stared  at  his  hat. 

"Yes,  milord,"  he  mumbled.  "I  am  glad  that  milord 
speaks  French." 

"Sit  down." 

Bibi  obeyed,  carefully  placing  his  hat  on  the  floor  by 
his  side.  This  big  Englishman,  with  his  strong  face, 
penetrating  eyes,  and  black  beard,  disconcerted  him 
more  than  a  little.  He  felt  himself  a  weakling,  and 
guessed  instinctively  that  it  would  be  no  use  to  assume 
a  hectoring  tone.  He  had  found  it  necessary  to  modify 
that  tone  a  good  deal  since  he  had  been  in  England. 

"Well,  what  is  it?  I'm  very  busy  this  morning,  and 
can  only  give  you  a  minute  or  two."  Martyn  wheeled 
round  in  his  chair.  There  was  a  tone  of  command  in 
his  voice,  besides  a  great  contempt.  He  knew  the 
type  of  man  he  was  dealing  with. 

Bibi  began  to  wish  he  had  not  come,  that  he  had 
listened  to  the  advice  of  his  friend  Alphonse  Lereux, 
who  had  had  greater  experience  than  he  in  these  mat- 
ters. Alphonse  had  recommended  dealing  exclusively 
with  the  woman — with  Lady  Beatrice,  who  was  the 


132  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

writer  of  the  incriminating  letters  found  in  Lord  Mar- 
tyn's  overcoat.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  frighten  a 
woman. 

But  Bibi  had  imagined  himself  more  clever  than  his 
friend,  and  had  decided  on  a  double  deal.  Besides,  he 
had  found  out  that  Lord  Martyn  lived  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Selwood,  where  he  himself  had  come  in 
obedience  to  Zelie's  commands,  and  was  therefore 
easily  accessible.  Some  ready  money  was  urgently 
needed  before  Bibi  carried  out  his  coup  against  Owen 
Mayne,  especially  having  regard  to  the  necessity  of 
immediate  flight  from  the  country,  and  here  was  the 
best  means  of  obtaining  it.  Later  on,  if  all  went  well — 
so  the  Apache  argued  with  himself — Lady  Beatrice 
might  still  be  approached  and  made  to  pay  for  her  in- 
discretion— he  had  arranged  for  that. 

But  now — well,  Bibi  did  not  feel  so  confident  of 
himself.  And  yet  the  man  in  whose  possession  these 
letters  had  been  would  surely  pay  for  their  restoration 
— to  save  a  woman's  honour ! 

"Milord  lost  an  overcoat  in  London  last  week." 
Bibi  made  the  plunge.  What  was  the  use  of  holding 
back? 

"Ah!"  Lord  Martyn  sat  erect.  "Well — you  found 
it?" 

"Not  I — a  friend  of  mine.  He  took  it  by  error  from 
a  restaurant." 

The  lie  was  so  palpably  absurd  that  Martyn  laughed. 
Bibi,  too,  allowed  his  lips  to  relax  in  a  grin. 

"Your  friend  took  my  coat  by  mistake.  Well,  let 
it  go  at  that.  You  wish  to  restore  it?" 

This  was  impossible,  for  it  had  already  been  pawned. 

"I  have  not  got  the  coat,  milord,"  said  Bibi, 
"but "  he  hesitated,  scraping  his  feet  on  the  carpet. 

"There  were  papers — letters,"  prompted  Martyn. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  133 

"Yes,  milord.  I  thought  they  might  be  of  im- 
portance. I  have  brought  them.  I  have  them  here." 
He  tapped  his  pocket. 

"All  of  them?" 

"Yes,  milord,"  lied  Bibi.  He  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  leave  two  of  the  most  incriminating  letters 
in  London. 

"Well,  hand  them  over  and  we'll  say  no  more  about 
the  coat — taken  by  mistake." 

This  was  a  high-handed  way  of  dealing  with  him 
which  did  not  at  all  meet  with  Bibi's  approval.  "Par- 
don, milord,"  he  muttered  surlily,  "but  these  letters — 
they  are  worth  money — to  you  or  to  the  lady  or  to  the 
other  gentleman — I  care  not  which.  I  have  come  to 
you  first.  Will  you  buy  them  from  me?  If  not,  I  go 
elsewhere." 

"I  see,"  said  Martyn  easily.  "It  is  a  case  of  black- 
mail. How  much  do  you  want?" 

"I  think — five  hundred  pounds,"  said  Bibi  modestly. 
"It  is  serious  for  the  lady — if  monsieur  her  fiance 
should  see  those  letters."  Bibi  had  acquired  all  the 
necessary  information  about  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer 
from  his  friend  Lereux. 

"And  you've  got  them  all  with  you?" 

"Every  one,"  lied  the  Apache  again — more  cheer- 
fully now,  for  things  seemed  going  well  after  all.  He 
felt  as  if  those  five  hundred  pounds  were  already  in 
his  pocket. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it."  There  was  a  smile  on  Mar- 
tyn's  lips,  and  he  eyed  the  Frenchman  with  infinite 
disdain.  "I  should  say  you  were  new  to  the  business 
of  blackmailing  or  you'd  never  have  brought  the  letters 
with  you.  A  poor  sort  of  rogue.  Kindly  empty  out 
your  pockets.  Every  one — and  at  once." 

Bibi  started  to  his  feet,  an  imprecation  upon  his 


134  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

lips.  This  was  turning  the  tables  with  a  vengeance. 
What  a  fool  he  had  been !  It  was  true  that  he  should 
have  made  his  negotiations  first  and  produced  the 
letters  afterwards.  This  natural  expedient  had  not 
occurred  to  his  dull  brain. 

"Do  as  I  bid  you."  Lord  Martyn  had  risen,  too,  and 
taken  a  quick  step  in  the  direction  of  the  Apache.  The 
latter  looked  little  more  than  a  boy  by  the  side  of  the 
burly  Englishman. 

Bibi  retreated.  "Milord  will  not  purchase?"  he 
faltered.  "Then,  please  permit  that  I  go." 

He  made  a  sudden  dash  for  the  door,  but  Martyn 
was  too  quick  for  him.  Bibi's  shoulders  were  gripped 
by  two  powerful  hands.  With  a  snarl  of  rage,  like  a 
trapped  beast,  the  Apache,  whose  hands  were  still  free, 
felt  for,  and  found,  his  knife.  He  had  no  strength, 
but  he  had  quickness  and  cunning.  And  that  knife 
had  already  seen  service. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THIS  was  not  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  Lord  Martyn 
had  been  involved  in  trouble  with  gentlemen  of  the 
same  kidney  as  Bibi  Coupe-vide.  He  knew  the  dangers 
that  had  to  be  avoided.  Your  Apache  may  be  physi- 
cally weak — a  poor  specimen  of  humanity — but  he  has 
methods  of  self-defence  which  are  apt  to  take  the  un- 
initiated by  surprise. 

Martyn  remembered  how  he  had  once  seen  a  friend 
of  his — a  big  man,  too — knocked  out  by  an  unexpected 
kick  from  a  heavy  boot  under  the  jaw.  So,  to  avoid 
any  possible  exercise  of  la  savate — that  un-English 
method  of  fighting — it  was  necessary  to  keep  at  close 
quarters.  It  was  against  Bibi's  feet  rather  than  his 
hands  that  the  Englishman  was  on  his  guard. 

And  so  Bibi  got  a  blow  in  with  his  knife,  but  it 
was  an  ineffectual  one.  The  blade  pierced  his  op- 
ponent's coat  over  the  right  breast,  and  then  met  with 
an  obstruction  in  the  shape  of  a  heavy  gun-metal  cigar 
case,  which  Lord  Martyn  happened  to  be  carrying  in 
his  pocket.  The  shock  of  the  impact  wrenched  the 
weapon  from  Bibi's  hand,  and  the  next  moment  he  was 
swept  from  his  feet,  lifted  up  like  a  child,  and  then 
thrown  down  again,  panting  and  half  throttled,  upon 
a  low  easy-chair. 

He  lay  there  gasping  out  the  vilest  invectives,  but 
he  made  no  attempt  to  renew  the  fray.  Lord  Martyn 
watched  him  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  he  turned  his 
attention  to  the  rent  in  his  coat,  as  though  that  were 

135 


136  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

of  primary  importance.  Next  he  picked  up  the  knife 
from  the  floor  and  threw  it  carelessly  upon  his  desk. 

"I  think  I'll  keep  that  as  a  souvenir  of  our  pleasant 
meeting,"  he  remarked.  "You'll  have  to  get  yourself 
another,  my  friend.  A  lot  of  good  it  would  have  done 
if  you  had  stuck  it  into  me,"  he  added,  smiling  behind 
his  beard,  "for  you  couldn't  have  got  away,  you  know." 

He  did  not  think  for  a  moment  of  giving  his  assailant 
in  charge.  It  would  not  have  been  like  Martyn  to  do 
so. 

Bibi  growled  an  inaudible  reply.  He  was  getting  his 
breath  back,  and  beginning  to  contemplate  the  possi- 
bility of  an  escape.  The  letters  still  reposed  in  his 
pocket. 

But  they  were  not  to  remain  there  long.  "If  you 
won't  turn  out  your  pockets  of  your  own  accord,  I 
shall  have  to  do  it  for  you,"  said  Lord  Martyn,  "and 
I  may  possibly  have  to  use  you  roughly  in  the  job. 
You  can  see  for  yourself  that  you  are  quite  helpless." 

The  fact,  indeed,  was  self-evident.  Bibi,  huddled 
up  in  his  chair,  deprived  of  his  knife,  gasping  still, 
was  not  in  a  position  to  offer  resistance  to  anything 
that  the  powerful,  muscular  Englishman  should  com- 
mand. 

"Now,  then — hurry  up;  I'll  give  you  just  one  minute 
to  hand  over  the  letters,"  Martyn  took  out  his  watch 
and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  it. 

Bibi  changed  his  tone  to  a  whine.  "Very  well, 
milord.  You  shall  have  them.  But  you  won't  be  hard 
upon  me.  I'm  a  poor  man,  and  badly  in  need  of 
money.  If  I  were  a  blackmailer  I'd  not  have  brought 
the  letters  with  me."  It  struck  him  that  this  was  a 
point  in  his  defence. 

"The  minute  is  nearly  up."  Lord  Martyn  slowly 
replaced  his  watch  and  advanced  a  step  nearer.  "Your 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  137 

object  was  blackmail,"  he  added.  "It's  your  own  look- 
out that  you  are  a  fool  as  well  as  a  rogue." 

Bibi  muttered  something  under  his  breath,  and  then 
produced  the  papers.  They  were  done  up  in  a  little 
packet  and  tied  with  delicate  pink  ribbon.  Lord  Mar- 
tyn  took  them  from  the  hand  of  the  Apache,  glanced 
at  the  top  one,  recognising  at  once  the  handwriting  of 
Lady  Beatrice  Clewer,  though  it  was  still  unformed  and 
girlish,  then,  as  some  affectionate  phrase  met  his  eye, 
he  swore  an  oath  behind  his  beard,  and  thrust  the 
letters  into  his  pocket. 

''That  is  all — you  swear  it  ?"  there  was  a  frown  upon 
his  forehead  for  which  Bibi  was  not  responsible.  Even 
a  cynic  may  cherish  some  illusions,  and  Lady  Beatrice 
Clewer  was  the  fondest  of  any  that  remained  to  Lord 
Martyn.  He  had  enshrined  her  in  a  secret  place  in  his 
heart,  set  her,  in  some  curious  way,  apart  from  the 
common  frailties  of  humanity.  He  had  never  admitted 
to  living  soul  his  weakness  in  his  armour — he  never 
would  admit  it.  Nevertheless,  the  knowledge  that  Lady 
Beatrice  was,  after  all,  upon  the  same  level  as  every 
other  woman — as  he  regarded  woman — had  come  to 
him  as  a  staggering  blow. 

"Mais  oui — that  is  all." 

"Turn  out  all  your  pockets  so  that  I  may  see." 

Bibi  obeyed  with  the  best  grace  that  he  could  muster 
under  the  circumstances.  After  all,  it  did  not  really 
matter  that  these  letters  should  be  given  up.  Even 
one  by  itself  was  quite  as  useful  as  the  whole  packet. 
Bibi  reflected  that  he  still  had  his  weapon  to  hand, 
and,  one  day,  he  would  take  a  fine  revenge  for  the  sum- 
mary treatment  that  had  been  meted  out  to  him.  He 
wouldn't  be  content  with  five  hundred  pounds  then — 
not  he. 

Lord  Martyn  was  not  content  until  he  had  seen  all 


138  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Bibi's  pockets  thoroughly  turned  out.  When  this  had 
been  effectually  done  he  drew  back  a  pace  or  two  and 
scrutinised  the  scowling  face  of  the  man  in  the 
chair  with  some  amusement  and  rather  more  interest 
than  he  had  hitherto  manifested. 

"So  you've  come  off  second  best,  my  French  friend," 
he  remarked ;  "not  that  you  didn't  have  a  good  try  to 
put  me  out  of  the  way.  It's  lucky  for  you  that  you 
failed."  He  glanced  at  the  rent  in  his  coat.  "You'd 
have  got  yourself  into  a  mess  if  you'd  really  hurt  me. 
As  it  is,  we'll  say  no  more  about  that." 

Bibi  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  He  had  had  a 
lurking  fear  that  the  police  might  yet  be  called  in,  and 
that  would  have  been  disastrous  for  him  just  now.  He 
rose  gingerly,  for  his  limbs  still  ached,  to  his  feet. 

"Then  I  may  go  ?" 

"In  a  minute — in  a  minute."  Lord  Martyn  was  still 
scrutinising  Bibi's  face  intently.  "It  has  just  occurred 
to  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  I've  seen  you  before.  You're 
an  Apache  of  Montmartre,  or  some  other  part  of  Paris 
— a  perfect  type  of  your  kind.  Your  sort  don't  often 
come  to  England.  What  are  you  doing  over  here  and 
where  the  devil  have  I  seen  you  ?" 

"How  should  I  know — I?"  Bibi  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  a  gesture  that  indicated  impatience.  He 
was  anxious  to  be  off. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"They  call  me  Bibi  Coupe-vide." 

Lord  Martyn's  eyes  shot  a  keen  glance  of  recog- 
nition. He  remembered  quite  well  now.  A  picture 
quickly  fashioned  itself  in  his  brain  of  a  long  hall, 
murky  with  tobacco  smoke,  and  reeking  of  beer,  spirits, 
and  humanity.  There  was  a  stage  at  one  end  and  a 
poor  pretence  of  scenery.  Those  who  could  afford  it 
found  more  elbow-room  in  little  boxes  raised  a  trifle 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  139 

above  the  level  of  the  parterre,  but  which  were  only 
divided  from  each  other  by  waist-high  partitions  and 
which  had  no  privacy  about  them.  It  was  from  one  of 
these  boxes  that  Lord  Martyn  had  discovered — Zelie. 

"Ah !    You  danced  at  the  Florian  ?" 

"Yes."  Bibi  drew  himself  up,  trying  to  square  his 
narrow  shoulders.  After  all,  he  was  a  person  of  some 
importance.  His  reputation  had  preceded  him — even 
with  this  Milor  Anglais. 

"With  Zelie — who  was  called  Zelie  la  Couleuvre?" 

"Yes." 

Lord  Martyn  pulled  at  his  beard.  A  train  of  suspi- 
cion had  been  aroused  in  his  mind.  For,  surely,  the 
appearance  of  this  fellow,  this  Apache,  upon  the  scene 
was  not  wholly  due  to  coincidence  ? 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth.  It  may  be 
very  much  to  your  advantage  to  do  so.  You  know 
that  Mademoiselle  Zelie  is  in  England?" 

"Yes."  It  was  slowly  dawning  upon  Bibi  that  he 
might  be  committing  himself.  He  shuffled  nervously 
with  his  feet. 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is  at  present?" 

"I  suppose — in  London."  Bibi's  replies  were  sullen. 
What  was  the  meaning  of  these  questions?  Why 
should  he  trouble  to  answer  them  ? 

"Did  you  come  to  England  with  her?"  This  was 
the  point  concerning  which  Lord  Martyn  was  most 
troubled.  Zelie  by  herself  was  all  very  well,  and  would 
fulfil  the  destiny  which  he  had  foreseen  for  her,  but  if 
she  were  already  hampered  by  a  masculine  appendage 
— and  such  a  one ! — then  the  prospects  for  the  future 
took  on  a  different  aspect  altogether. 

"No.  Why  do  you  ask  me  these  questions?  Why 
should  I  answer  them?"  Bibi  edged  sideways  towards 


140  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

the  door.  "I've  had  enough.  One  would  think  that 
you  belonged  to  the  police  yourself.  Let  me  go." 

"Not  until  we've  had  our  talk  out."  Martyn  spoke 
with  decision.  When  he  wished  he  could  assume  a  tone 
that  brooked  no  contradiction.  He  pointed  to  a  chair, 
and  Bibi,  all  against  his  will,  and  because  he  couldn't 
help  himself,  dropped  into  it. 

For  here  was  a  mystery  that  had  to  be  solved.  If 
Zelie  really  cared  for  this  fellow,  then  good-bye  to  her 
prospects  of  success.  She  had  much  better  return  to 
her  native  slums.  But  if,  as  was  more  likely,  she  was 
being  followed,  tracked,  then  some  steps  must  be  taken 
to  rid  her  of  the  persecution. 

Lord  Martyn,  unwilling  to  pay  a  farthing  under 
compulsion,  had  no  care  for  the  money  he  spent  to 
attain  anything  he  desired.  He  stepped  to  his  desk,  un- 
locked a  drawer,  and  produced  a  handful  of  banknotes. 

"You  may  yet  go  away  with  your  pockets  lined," 
he  said.  "I'm  a  queer  person,  you  see,  M.  Bibi 
1'Apache,  and  I  bear  you  no  grudge  for  trying  to  black- 
mail and  then  knife  me.  You  just  acted  according  to 
the  ways  of  your  kind,  and  you're  no  more  responsible 
than  if  you  were  a  puppet  dangled  at  the  end  of  a  lot 
of  strings.  We're  all  of  us  dangled  on  strings,  if  it 
comes  to  that." 

Lord  Martyn  laughed  and  broke  off,  recognising  that 
he  was  not  understood.  "To  come  to  the  point,"  he 
went  on  in  more  ordinary  tone.  "I  want  you  to  tell 
me  what  you  are  doing  in  England,  and  what  is  your 
present  connection  with  Mademoiselle  Zelie." 

Bibi  greedily  eyed  the  bank-notes  that  lay  upon  the 
desk.  He  had  only  to  talk,  to  tell  a  plausible  story,  and 
they  would  be  in  his  pocket.  Certainly,  it  must  be  true, 
what  he  had  so  often  heard,  that  all  the  English  are 
mad. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  141 

But  he  did  not  allow  his  cupidity  to  blind  him  to  the 
necessity  for  discretion.  Bibi  had  his  full  share  of 
natural  cunning.  He  had  divined  that  this  Milor 
whose  coat  had  fallen  into  his  possession,  was  most 
probably  the  same  one  of  whom  Zelie  had  spoken  when 
she  referred  to  her  new  and  powerful  friends  in  Eng- 
land, through  whose  influence  she  was  going  to  rise 
to  such  astonishing  heights,  and  he  would  certainly 
have  refrained  from  his  attempt  at  blackmail  had  he 
anticipated  any  danger  of  his  connection  with  Zelie 
being  revealed.  For,  of  course,  that  revelation  might 
lead  to  others — all  unpleasant.  How  he  obtained  the 
coat,  for  instance,  and  under  what  circumstances. 

So  he  must  be  careful  what  he  said,  for  his  own  sake 
as  well  as  for  Zelie's.  It  would  be  a  catastrophe,  in- 
deed, if  those  wonderful  prospects  of  hers  should  be 
interfered  with  because  of  his  blunder — why,  it  would 
be  the  ruin  of  all  the  hopes  he  had  been  building  for 
himself  on  the  strength  of  her  word!  And  that  was 
most  serious  of  all. 

So  Bibi  was  on  his  guard  lest  he  should  say  a  word 
to  betray  any  immediate  connection  between  Zelie  and 
himself,  and  being  a  cunning  rogue,  with  the  blood  of 
centuries  of  villainy  in  his  veins,  he. contrived  to  put 
together  a  plausible  story  enough. 

"I  don't  see  that  it's  any  affair  of  yours,"  he  said, 
with  a  dogged  sullenness  that  was  more  or  less  as- 
sumed to  hide  the  avidity  with  which  he  had  watched 
the  production  of  the  notes,  "but  since  you  want  the 
information,  and  don't  mind  paying  for  it,  I'm  willing 
to  talk.  Go  ahead.  Ask  any  question  you  like." 

Lord  Marty n  seated  himself  at  his  desk.  He  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  Apache  as  he  proceeded 
with  his  interrogatory. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"You  tell  me  you  did  not  accompany  Zelie  to  Eng- 
land. Is  that  the  truth?" 

"It  is.    I  swear  it." 

"Why  did  you  come?" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  Bibi  spread  out  his  palms.  He  was 
speaking  the  truth  because  there  was,  at  present,  no 
object  in  lying.  "She  had  left  me  and  she  was  my 
gosse.  I  had  been  in  gaol — on  her  account.  I  was 
wild  with  her — jealous.  And  there  were  other  reasons 
why  I  wished  to  be  out  of  Paris.  I  had  enemies,  you 
understand,  fellows  who  would  have  knifed  me — in  the 
dark.  So  I  came  to  London — to  find  Zelie." 

"And  you  found  her  ?" 

It  was  now  that  caution  was  needed.  Bibi  was  equal 
to  the  occasion.  "Not  to  speak  to.  I  traced  her  to  a 
club  in  London.  I  knew  she  would  go  there — to  see 
a  friend." 

"The  Delphic  Club?" 

"That's  it.  She  came  out  with  two  gentlemen — 
I  could  not  see  their  faces.  She  drove  off  with  them 
in  an  automobile.  I  did  not  venture  to  interfere.  But 
I  followed — running.  The  street  was  crowded,  and 
the  carriage  couldn't  travel  fast.  Luckily  it  didn't  go 
far.  It  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  big  restaurant " 

"An  hotel,"  corrected  Martyn.  So  far  the  story 
sounded  reasonable  enough. 

"Zelie  got  out — and  the  two  gentlemen.  I  think  that 
one  of  them  was  yourself,  milord.  All  three  went  into 
the  hotel.  Again  I  did  not  dare  to  follow.  The  auto- 
mobile drew  up  in  a  rank  with  the  other  carriages  to 
wait.  I  hung  about  it — you  see,  I  wanted  to  find  out 
about  Zelie.  An  opportunity  came — the  chauffeur  was 
talking  to  other  men — I  looked  in  and  saw  the  coat  ly- 
ing there "  Bibi  paused  dramatically. 

"You  took  it— stole  it?" 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  143 

"It  was  not  that  I  meant  to  steal.  I  thought  that 
I  might  find  in  the  pockets  something  that  would  help 
me  to  get  into  definite  touch  with  Zelie.  You  under- 
stand me,  milord — it  was  my  love  for  her  that  prompted 
me."  Bibi  flattered  himself  that  he  was  telling  his  story 
quite  artistically.  "She  would  not  have  spoken  to  me 
had  I  ventured  to  address  her  that  afternoon.  So  it 
was  all  that  I  could  do — to  take  the  coat." 

"This  was  last  Saturday — nearly  five  days  ago.  Why 
did  you  not  come  to  see  me  earlier  ?  My  card  was  in  a 
pocket  of  the  cloak.  I  presume  that  M.  Bibi  Coupe- 
vide  was  occupied  in  obtaining  his  facts  in  order  to 
turn  the  letters  he  had  found  to  improper  account. 
The  desire  to  trace  Zelie  gave  way  to  this  glorious 
chance  of  blackmail.  Am  I  right  ?" 

Lord  Martyn  put  the  question  quietly,  though  with 
a  disdainful  curve  of  his  lip.  He  was  inclined  to  be- 
lieve the  story,  which  certainly  sounded  plausible,  and 
was  relieved  to  know  that  there  was  no  manner  of 
connection  at  present  between  his  protegee  and  this 
very  undesirable  alien.  That  was  the  main  point,  and 
it  was  his  business  to  see  that  Bibi  Coupe-vide  was 
packed  out  of  the  country  as  soon  as  possible. 

"I  thought  you  would  be  pleased  to  have  the  letters, 
and  that  at  the  same  time  I  might  find  my  Zelie,"  ad- 
mitted Bibi  unabashed.  He  felt  proud  of  himself  for 
having  tackled  a  difficult  task  so  successfully.  He 
had  not  said  a  single  word  to  betray  Zelie,  and  he  had 
fully  earned  those  notes  that  lay  there  so  invitingly  on 
the  desk. 

"I  see."  Lord  Martyn  carefully  selected  five  of  the 
notes  and  folded  them  slowly.  "So  that  is  your  story. 
And  you  swear  that  you  have  not  spoken  to  Madem- 
oiselle Zelie  since  she  has  been  in  England  ?" 

"I  swear  it." 


144  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"Good.  Well,  M.  Bibi  Coupe-vide,  it  strikes  me 
that  you  are  such  a  fine  specimen  of  a  rogue  that  your 
talents  are  wasted  in  England.  I  suggest  that  you 
return  to  your  native  country — and  stay  there.  The 
price  you  asked  for  the  letters  was  five  hundred  pounds. 
Well,  I  will  give  you  fifty  pounds  now  and  a  card  of 
introduction  to  my  agent  in  Paris,  who  will  pay  you 
fifty  pounds  a  month  for  the  next  year  as  long  as 
you  can  prove  to  his  satisfaction  and  mine  that  you 
have  not  attempted  to  return  to  this  country.  What 
do  you  say?" 

The  offer  was  a  tempting  one.  Fifteen  hundred 
francs  a  month !  to  say  nothing  of  Zelie's  promises 
of  untold  wealth  to  come  if  he  should  succeed  in  doing 
what  she  wished  him  to  do.  And  he  had  laid  his  plans 
for  that — plans  which  were  bound  to  be  successful. 
Yes,  he  could  safely  promise  to  leave  the  country! 

There  could  no  longer  be  any  vestige  of  doubt  in  his 
mind  that  what  Zelie  had  told  him  was  true.  She 
had  found  powerful  friends  and  was  going  to  make 
her  mark.  She  must  have  a  free  hand — for  year  per- 
haps. After  that — well,  she  was  still  la  gosse  &  Bibi, 
his  name  was  indelibly  impressed  upon  her  arm,  and 
he  would  see  to  it  that  he  kept  his  own. 

"I  consent,"  he  said,  so  eagerly  that  Lord  Martyn 
was  constrained  to  smile. 

The  remaining  details  were  quickly  settled.  Bibi 
promised  to  return  to  London  that  day.  He  was  to 
be  driven  to  the  station  and  seen  off  by  one  of  Lord 
Martyn's  servants.  Here  Bibi  made  a  mental  reserva- 
tion that  no  one  need  be  any  the  wiser  if  he  should 
return  by  a  late  train  that  evening — as,  indeed,  would 
be  necessary  if  he  was  to  carry  out  his  plans.  He 
would  get  out  at  another  station  a  few  m:les  from  Sel- 
wood,  and  walk  across  country.  The  fact  that  he 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  145 

would  be  apparently  leaving  for  London  that  afternoon 
in  so  open  a  manner  fitted  in  most  excellently  with  his 
projects. 

He  undertook  to  be  in  Paris  by  Saturday  morning. 
He  was  to  call  on  the  agent  at  once,  so  that  his  arrival 
might  be  reported.  This  again  suited  him  admirably. 
For,  if  all  fell  out  as  Bibi  hoped,  he  would  have  struck 
his  blow  at  Owen  Mayne  before  another  twelve  hours 
were  over,  and  then,  naturally,  a  speedy  flight  from 
England  was  indicated.  Oh,  yes,  he  trusted  to  be 
safely  in  Paris  by  Saturday  morning.  And  he  would 
not  be  hampered  by  the  want  of  money,  either — he  had 
certainly  been  in  luck  when  he  decided  to  call  upon 
this  mad  Englishman !  Affairs  that  begin  badly  often 
turn  out  well. 

These  matters  having  been  duly  settled,  Lord  Mar- 
tyn  handed  over  the  stipulated  number  of  notes,  which 
Bibi  grabbed  with  lean  and  none  too  clean  fingers. 
Then  the  bell  was  rung,  the  butler  summoned,  and 
instructions  given  as  to  the  train  by  which  the  French- 
man must  leave  and  the  manner  of  his  conveyance  to 
the  station. 

They  passed  out  of  the  study  into  the  great  hall  to- 
gether, Lord  Martyn  a  little  in  advance.  And  it  was 
at  that  very  moment  that  Zelie,  escorted  by  Stephen 
Aldis,  appeared,  coming  from  the  side  corridor  that 
led  to  the  terrace  entrance.  Martyn  muttered  an  oath 
in  his  beard,  but  the  meeting  was  inevitable. 

Aldis  and  the  French  girl  were  laughing  together, 
evidently  on  the  best  of  terms.  It  was  the  luncheon 
hour,  and  Zelie  was  making  a  pretence  of  taking  off 
her  hat.  The  actor  was  attempting  to  help  her.  There 
was  a  familiarity  about  the  whole  proceeding  which 
must  have  struck  the  most  casual  observer. 

Bibi  was  hidden  by  the  stalwart  form  of  Lord  Mar- 


146  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

tyn.    It  was  the  latter  only  that  Zelie  saw.    She  ran 
forward,  her  eyes  flashing  with  merriment. 

"I  have  sought  for  you,  milord,"  she  exclaimed, 
"but  they  always  tell  me  you  are  busy.  And  since 
noon,  M.  Aldis,  he  has  not  left  me  alone,  though  I 
tell  him  there  are  those  who  will  be  jealous." 

Suddenly  she  broke  off — she  had  caught  sight  of 
Bibi  slouching  behind  her  host. 

The  smile  deserted  her  lips,  and  her  thin,  small  face 
took  on  that  unhuman  and  feline  expression  which  was 
peculiar  to  it  in  moments  of  annoyance.  Her  lips 
quivered  as  though  there  were  venom  upon  them. 
Lord  Martyn,  watching  her,  was  not  ill-pleased.  For 
it  was  evident  that  Zelie  did  not  welcome  this  appari- 
tion from  the  past. 

"It's  all  right,  Zelie,"  he  explained,  quickly.  "M. 
Bibi  Coupe-vide — I  believe  that  is  the  gentleman's 
name — and  I  have  been  having  a  talk,  and  we  have 
arranged  matters  quite  harmoniously.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  rather  fancy  that  this  meeting  is  as  unex- 
pected to  him  as  it  is  to  you." 

The  fact  was  self-evident.  Bibi  had  had  no  idea 
that  Zelie  was  at  Chamney  Castle  when  he  had  de- 
cided upon  his  visit  to  Lord  Martyn.  He  had  imagined 
her  in  London,  making  the  arrangements  for  her  Eng- 
lish stage  career,  and,  doubtless,  waiting  impatiently 
for  intelligence  from  him  that  he  had  succeeded  in 
avenging  her  with  Owen  Mayne. 

He  was  taken  utterly  aback,  and  his  face  expressed 
a  foolish  surprise  that  had,  also,  something  of  trepi- 
dation in  it.  For,  despite  his  brutality,  he  was  not 
without  a  certain  fear  and  respect  for  Zelie. 

To  think  that  this  splendid  creature  was  his  gosse, 
Zelie  la  Couleuvre,  the  Dancing  Girl  of  Montmatre! 
It  seemed  almost  outside  the  realms  of  possibility. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  147 

"Zelie,"  he  gasped.  "Nom  de  Dieu,  but  who'd  have 
thought  it?" 

Zelie  quickly  recovered  herself;  indeed,  it  was  only 
Lord  Martyn  who  had  noticed  the  flash  of  malevolent 
anger  which  had  crossed  her  face.  Her  quick  brain 
had  realised  the  purport  of  Bibi's  visit.  She  had  an- 
ticipated from  the  first  moment  when  she  had  heard 
of  the  lost  papers  that  such  an  event  might  occur.  It 
was  not  to  intrude  himself  upon  her  that  Bibi  had 
come  to  Chamney  Castle,  and  it  was  evident  enough 
that,  whatever  had  happened  between  him  and  Lord 
Martyn,  no  harm  to  herself  had  been  done. 

And,  all  at  once,  a  sudden  inspiration  came  to  her. 
Her  whole  face  lit  up,  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her 
white  teeth  flashed. 

'"Cre  nom!"  she  exclaimed  in  her  turn,  bursting 
into  a  ringing  laugh.  "Who'd  have  thought  it?  My 
Bibi !"  She  took  Bibi's  hand,  shaking  it  with  unneces- 
sary violence,  laughing  melodiously  all  the  time.  The 
Apache  seemed  to  shrink  from  her,  regarding  her 
furtively  from  the  corners  of  his  narrow  eyes. 

"M.  Bibi  is  leaving  for  London  by  an  early  train 
this  afternoon,  Zelie,"  explained  Lord  Martyn,  after 
he  had  watched  the  scene  for  a  moment,  appreciating 
the  comedy  of  it.  "He  came  to  see  me  on  a  matter 
of  business,  and  this  is  really  only  a  chance  meeting. 
I  have  arranged  to  send  him  to  the  station." 

But  this  arrangement  did  not  appeal  to  Zelie.  She 
had  formed  other  plans.  "Ah,  mais  non!"  she  cried. 
"I  cannot  allow  my  Bibi  to  depart  thus.  Bibi  shall 
dance  with  me  to-night.  We  will  perform  our  famous 
Danse  du  Neant" — she  clapped  her  hands  together 
delightedly — "and  you  shall  see — ah,  you  shall  see  what 
a  success  Bibi  and  I  will  make  of  it !" 


CHAPTER  XX 

OF  course,  Zelie  had  her  way,  though  her  proposal  was 
hardly  received  with  acclamation.  On  the  contrary, 
Lord  Martyn  did  his  utmost  to  dissuade  her  from  such 
a  course,  while  Stephen  Aldis  both  looked  and  spoke 
his  disapprobation. 

Yet,  in  a  way,  Martyn  was  amused,  and,  after  all, 
he  cared  not  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for  what  people  said 
about  him. 

And  so  arrangements  were  made  for  a  rehearsal 
that  afternoon,  and  then  the  scene  came  to  a  conclusion. 

Bibi  was  left  in  the  temporary  charge  of  the  unhappy 
Ronaldson,  who  showed  himself  peculiarly  averse  to 
the  job.  He  was  to  be  given  a  good  meal  and  looked 
after  generally.  Luckily  for  the  butler,  Cooper,  Lord 
Martyn's  valet,  was  thoroughly  conversant  with 
French,  and  could  be  pressed  into  service  also. 

Ronaldson's  mental  denunciation  of  "furriners"  in- 
cluded Zelie  as  well  as  the  masculine  intruder. 

Before  joining  the  rest  of  the  house-party  at  lunch 
Lord  Martyn  seized  the  opportunity  to  have  a  private 
word  with  Stephen  Aldis.  He  drew  the  latter  into 
his  study  and  closed  the  door. 

"Steve,  old  man,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  glad  to  hear 
that  I've  done  a  stroke  of  business  on  your  account. 
You  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  about  those  letters. 
Here  they  are." 

Martyn  produced  the  packet  of  papers,  still  tied  up 
with  pink  ribbon,  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it  to 

148 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  149 

his  friend.  "You  may  thank  your  lucky  stars,"  he 
went  on,  "that  you've  got  out  of  the  mess  so  easily." 

Aldis  was  loud  in  his  exclamations  of  surprise  and 
thanks.  He  scrutinised  the  letters,  but  without  un- 
doing the  ribbon.  There  was  a  warm  flush  upon  his 
cheek.  "But  how  on  earth  did  you  get  them,  Harry  ?" 
he  inquired. 

Lord  Martyn  told  the  story  briefly.  "The  fellow 
came  to  England  in  pursuit  of  Zelie,  you  see,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "but  I  think  it's  true  that  they  have  not 
actually  met  before  to-day.  Indeed,  I'm  quite  sure 
that  they  were  both  genuinely  surprised  and  taken 
aback.  And  now,  if  I  were  you,"  he  added,  "I'd  de- 
stroy those  letters  before  they  are  capable  of  doing  any 
real  damage,  and  then  you  can  meet  Lady  Beatrice 
with  a  more  or  less  easy  conscience." 

Aldis  protested  eagerly  that  he  would  do  as  he  was 
advised.  "I  can't  say  how  grateful  to  you  I  am, 
Harry,"  he  muttered,  "nor  how  ashamed  of  myself. 
But  you'll  think  none  the  worse  of  Lady  Beatrice,  will 
you?  Believe  me,  it  was  nothing  on  her  part  but  just 
a  silly,  girlish  prank." 

"I'm  quite  sure  of  that,"  responded  Martyn  readily, 
but  he  turned  his  head  away  so  that  Aldis  could  not 
see  his  face. 

"And  now" — Martyn  glanced  at  the  rent  in  his  coat 
— "both  you  and  I — I  especially — will  want  to  get  ready 
for  lunch."  He  tapped  his  breast  and  smiled.  "And 
my  dear  Steve,  let  this  be  a  warning  to  you.  Zelie  is 
dangerous.  Don't  play  with  edged  tools — you  have  no 
need  to.  Of  course,  it's  a  fascinating  game " 

"She's  a  siren,  Harry."  Aldis  blurted  out  the 
avowal.  "She  makes  me  lose  my  head.  I  don't  know 
why,  because  she  doesn't  really  encourage  me,  rather 
the  reverse.  I  know  I  shall  never  win  her,  and  that's 


150  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

the  devil  of  it.  For  I  feel  that  I  must  go  on,  that  she's 
the  one  thing  I  want  upon  earth.  It's  a  torture  and  a 
delight.  When  I'm  alone  I  tell  myself  that  I'm  a  fool 
and  I  try  to  think  of  Cecily,  but  it's  no  use.  Zelie 
absorbs  me.  I  could  curse  you  for  taking  her  up  and 
I  could  thank  you  on  my  bended  knees.  That's  how 
I  feel." 

"Keep  out  of  her  way,  Steve,"  said  Martyn,  his 
usual  bluff  tone  softening.  "Go  back  to  London  to- 
morrow. I  thought  that  you,  at  least,  were  safe.  I 
didn't  sharpen  my  panther's  claws  for  you."  Suddenly 
his  voice  changed  again,  and  he  turned  sharply  upon 
Aldis.  "Good  heavens,  man,  haven't  you  got  your 
Cecily,  haven't  you  got  all  the  most  beautiful  women 
in  London  at  your  feet?  Can't  you  be  content?" 

"A  man  always  wants  the  unattainable,"  muttered 
Aldis  almost  sullenly. 

"He  turns  naturally  to  the  evil,"  retorted  Martyn 
mockingly.  "Well,  well,  Steve,"  he  added,  "it's  not 
for  me  to  control  you.  You're  a  man  of  mature  under- 
standing. Which  means  that  if  someone  points  out  a 
way  to  you  you're  bound  to  take  the  other.  So  please 
consider  my  advice  unsaid." 

"A  queer  fellow,  Harry,"  was  Aldis's  private  com- 
ment as,  a  little  later,  he  made  his  way  to  the  dining- 
room.  "I  sometimes  wonder  if  those  people  aren't 
right  who  say  he's  a  bit  mad." 

As  for  Martyn,  he  remained  alone  in  his  study  for  a 
few  minutes  after  the  departure  of  his  friend.  He 
sat  by  his  desk,  resting  his  chin  in  the  palm  of  one  of 
his  hands,  while  with  the  other  he  played  with  the  knife 
which  he  had  secured  from  Bibi.  He  ran  his  finger 
along  the  edge. 

"The  panther's  claw" — so  he  communed  with  him- 
self— "yes,  it's  sharp  and  keen.  There  was  once  a 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  151 

man,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he  were  telling  himself  a  story, 
"who  made  it  his  profession  to  scoff  and  despise  his 
fellows.  And  he  owned  a  panther,  which  lived  safely 
ensconced  behind  its  bars.  And  one  and  all  admired 
it,  saying,  'How  sleek  is  its  coat,  how  wonderful  its 
eyes,  how  graceful  its  gait!'  Then,  one  day,  in  de- 
rision, he  unloosed  the  bars  and  the  panther  was  free. 
And,  first  of  all,  it  turned  upon  those  who  were  nearest 
and  dearest  to  the  man's  heart,  and  rent  them  limb 
from  limb,  and,  as  he  tried  to  cage  it  once  more,  it  fell 
upon  him  and  rent  him  too." 

Lord  Martyn  quietly  dropped  the  knife  into  a  drawer 
of  his  desk,  then  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose. 

"Which  things  are  an  allegory,"  he  added,  as  he 
made  his  slow  way  to  his  room.  Here  he  changed 
his  clothes  and  made  elaborate  preparations  for  meet- 
ing his  guests  at  the  luncheon  table. 

He  was  smiling  again  when  he  seated  himself  at 
their  head,  quite  restored  to  his  normal  self.  And 
Zelie  was  placed  beside  him  upon  his  left. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THEY  were  rehearsing  that  afternoon  in  the  great  ball- 
room of  Chamney  Castle,  where  the  entertainment  was 
to  take  place  some  hours  later.  It  was  great  fun,  more 
particularly  perhaps  because  the  workpeople  were  still 
busy  with  the  decorations  and  general  preparations, 
and,  consequently,  confusion  and  general  pandemonium 
reigned  from  end  to  end  of  the  hall. 

Beyond  the  four  great  marble  pillars  which  divided 
the  room  into  two  parts  a  stage  had  been  erected  with 
all  the  requisite  accessories.  A  space  had  been  railed 
off  for  the  orchestra,  which,  however,  when  the  time 
for  the  performance  came,  would  be  practically  hidden 
by  banks  of  flowers.  There  was  to  be  dancing  after 
supper,  when  the  orchestra  would  be  removed  to  a 
more  prominent  position  upon  the  stage.  A  smaller 
hall  adjoining  the  main  apartment  afforded  all  the  ac- 
commodation that  was  needed  for  the  chaperons. 
Three  great  windows  upon  the  south  side  gave  direct 
access  to  the  terrace,  lawns,  and  garden  of  the  Castle. 

Outside  the  hall  there  was  almost  as  much  movement 
as  within,  for  the  lawns  were  being  edged  with  thou- 
sands of  multi-coloured  fairy  lamps,  while  Chinese 
lanterns  were  being  suspended  from  all  the  available 
trees  within  a  wide  radius  of  the  Castle. 

Zelie  was  enjoying  herself  mightily  and  was  already 
quite  conscious  of  the  fact  that  she  was  regarded  as  a 
kind  of  queen  qf  Jjie  forthcoming  revelry.  She  had,  in 

152 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  153 

fact,  not  been  a  dozen  hours  at  Chamney  Castle  before 
it  was  evident  that  all  the  men  at  least  were  at  her 
feet.  The  women,  perhaps,  held  more  aloof.  But, 
then,  Zelie  never  troubled  herself  about  the  opinion  of 
her  own  sex. 

Of  course,  the  guests  whom  Lord  Marty n  had  col- 
lected together  under  his  roof  were  all  more  or  less 
of  the  Bohemian  order.  Had  it  been  otherwise  Zelie 
would  certainly  have  found  it  more  difficult  to  hold 
her  own.  She  was,  however,  happily  unconscious  of 
any  such  social  distinctions,  and  imagined  herself 
already  moving  among  the  proudest  of  England's 
aristocracy. 

And  certainly  the  names  of  her  fellow-guests  were 
such  as  might  well  have  excused  the  misunderstanding. 
Some  twenty  in  all,  there  was  hardly  one,  man  or 
woman,  who  was  not  well  known  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land — and  beyond  it. 

Such,  for  instance,  were  Stephen  Aldis  and  Cecily 
Cuthbert,  both  stage  constellations  of  magnitude ;  such 
was  Mme.  de  Freyne,  known  to  the  cosmopolitan  world 
of  letters;  such,  again,  was  Sir  Donald  Ransom,  who 
had  latterly  achieved  great  fame  by  his  explorations 
over  unknown  territory  in  Central  Asia. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  one  of  these  expeditions 
that  Sir  Donald  had  fallen  in  with  Lord  Martyn,  and 
the  two  men  had  been  fast  friends  ever  since.  Lord 
Martyn,  therefore,  had  regarded  the  young  explorer's 
engagement  to  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer,  for  whom  he 
had  so  deep  and  tender  a  regard,  with  especial  eyes  of 
favour. 

Lady  Beatrice  herself,  now  some  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  figures,  as  well 
as  the  most  beautiful,  in  London  society.  Her  father, 
the  Earl  of  Albyn,  had  been  a  highly  placed  diplomat. 


154  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

He  had  devoted  all  his  love  to  Lady  Beatrice,  and  it 
was  upon  his  death,  little  more  than  two  years  ago, 
that  he  had  invoked  the  good  will  of  his  friend  Lord 
Martyn  on  behalf  of  his  fondly  loved  daughter.  For, 
as  it  happened,  the  present  Countess  of  Albyn,  the 
Earl's  second  wife,  was  a  woman  addicted  to  fast  com- 
pany. She  loved  to  squander  large  sums  at  Monte 
Carlo,  while  her  figure  was  a  familiar  one  upon  the 
race-course.  Scandal  had  more  than  once  attached 
itself  to  her  name.  But  for  this  she  did  not  care  a 
scrap.  She  was  a  good-natured  woman,  very  much  of 
the  horsy  type,  and  she  liked  to  talk  to  men  as  if  she 
herself  belonged  to  their  sex. 

So  much  of  the  Albyn  history  was  generally  known. 
But  there  were  many  who  affirmed  that  the  secret  side 
of  it  had  not  yet  been  written,  but  that  if  Lord  Mar- 
tyn cared  to  speak  he  could  tell  a  story  which  would 
astonish  Society.  Lord  Martyn,  however,  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  to  unseal  his  lips  for  the  gratification  of 
vulgar  curiosity. 

Of  course,  the  Countess  of  Albyn  was  of  the  house 
party,  and  besides  her,  to  name  but  two  or  three  who 
had  already  attracted  Zelie's  attention,  there  were  Gil- 
bert Farrington,  the  eccentric  artist,  George  Hamand, 
the  famous  gentleman  rider,  and  Guy  Menzies,  who 
would  undoubtedly  be  a  Cabinet  Minister  when  his 
party  were  once  more  returned  to  power. 

Zelie  was  anxious  to  have  a  talk  with  Bibi,  but  it 
needed  some  careful  manoeuvring  to  bring  about  the 
desired  interview.  She  found  it  necessary  at  last  to 
appeal  to  Lord  Martyn  that  he  should  have  the  stage 
cleared  in  order  that  she  and  Bibi  might  rehearse  their 
Danse  du  Neant.  The  rest  of  her  performance  had 
already  been  arranged,  but  she  would  have  to  instruct 
the  leader  of  the  orchestra  in  certain  points  which  it 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  155 

was  essential  for  him  to  observe  if  the  dance  were  to 
be  a  success. 

And  so  Bibi  was  sent  for,  and  he  arrived,  accom- 
panied by  the  French-speaking  valet,  just  as  a  laughing 
company  of  young  people  scrambled  down  from  the 
stage  in  obedience  to  Lord  Martyn's  imperative  but 
genially  spoken  order.  Bibi  felt  himself  stared  at, 
despised,  made  an  object  of  derision.  He  was  quite 
sure  that  they  were  laughing  at  him,  and  as  he  stepped 
back  to  allow  th.e  little  group  to  pass  he  scowled  and 
assumed  an  even  more  hang-dog  expression  than  he 
wore  habitually. 

"What  an  ugly-looking  brute!"  It  was  Sir  Donald 
who  whispered  the  remark  to  his  fiancee.  "He  looks 
as  if  he'd  like  to  stick  a  knife  into  any  one  of  us.  I 
don't  know  what  Martyn's  about  to  allow  such  a  fellow 
to  take  part  in  the  show." 

"He's  going  to  dance  with  your  Mile.  Zelie,"  replied 
the  girl,  slightly  accenting  the  pronoun.  Sir  Donald, 
in  her  opinion,  had  already  been  over-attentive  to  the 
French  girl. 

"Well,  she's  a  marvel  by  herself,"  responded  the 
man,  "and  if  she  dances  as  they  say  she  does,  she's 
going  to  take  London  by  storm.''' 

"She  frightens  me,"  replied  the  girl  simply.  Then 
she  turned  to  Cecily  Cuthbert,  who  was  just  behind  her, 
and  linked  her  arm  in  that  of  the  young  actress,  for 
whom  she  was  feeling  no  little  sympathy. 

"What  shall  we  do  next,  now  that  we're  turned  out 
of  the  hall,  Cecily?"  she  asked  lightly.  "I  move  we 
get  Donald  to  take  us  for  a  row  on  the  lake.  It's 
so  oppressively  hot,  and  we  could  just  paddle  about 
for  a  bit.  We  needn't  be  energetic,  since  we  shall  be 
dancing  till  dawn." 


156  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

She  glanced  up  appealingly  at  her  tall,  handsome 
lover.  "You'll  take  us,  Don,  won't  you?" 

Sir  Donald  promised  he  would.  He  smiled  down 
into  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  taking  no  heed  of  the  very 
gentle  rebuke  which  she  had  offered  him.  He  was 
guiltily  conscious  of  having  paid  Zelie  rather  more 
attention  than  he  need. 

"No,  you  must  excuse  me,"  said  Cecily,  quietly 
disengaging  her  arm.  "I'm  sure  you  two  will  be  quite 
happy  by  yourselves."  Her  eyes  were  directed  to- 
wards the  stage,  Stephen  Aldis  was  still  lingering  there. 
His  figure  was  just  visible  in  the  wings,  and  he  was 
talking  with  Zelie,  who  had  thrown  herself  down  upon 
a  property  chair. 

"Come  along,  Bee,"  said  Donald.  "We'll  saunter 
down  towards  the  lake.  Cecily  may  be  able  to  join 
us  later  on.  Poor  little  woman,"  he  added,  as  he  gently 
conducted  his  fiancee  through  one  of  the  windows  that 
opened  on  to  the  garden.  "She's  consumed  with 
jealousy,  and  I  must  say  that  Aldis  is  playing  it  up 
rather  thick." 

And  so,  laughing  and  whispering  to  each  other  the 
sweet  nothings  in  which  young  lovers  delight,  they 
strolled  happily  to  the  lake,  where  they  embarked 
upon  a  little  boat  and  lost  themselves  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  trees  whose 
leafy  branches  overhung  the  water. 

In  the  meanwhile  Zelie  was  all  impatience  to  get 
rid  of  the  persistent  Stephen  Aldis.  "There's  Miss 
Cuthbert  waiting  for  you,"  she  said,  "and  she's  been 
looking  daggers  at  both  of  us  all  day."  Zelie  gave  a 
short,  rather  malicious  laugh.  "At  least,  I  can't  call 
it  looking  daggers,"  she  added,  "for  that  isn't  the  way 
with  your  Englishwomen.  They  just  appear  sad  and 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  157 

as  if  they  wanted  to  shed  tears.  I  call  that  silly,  for 
no  man's  worth  weeping  for." 

"Have  you  ever  cried,  Zelie?"  he  asked  musingly. 

"I  ?"  She  laughed  again,  a  hard  laugh.  "Yes,  with 
passion,  and,  once  or  twice,  long  ago,  because  I  was 
cold  and  hungry.  But  for  love" — she  shrugged  her 
narrow  shoulders — "ah,  mais  non — never,  never!" 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Bibi  stepped  on  to  the 
stage.  He  was  approaching  from  the  opposite  wing, 
and  he  stared  about  him  with  surly  defiance.  The 
valet,  having  brought  him  safely  to  his  destination,  had 
remained  in  the  body  of  the  hall.  He  had  his  instruc- 
tions not  to  let  his  charge  out  of  sight. 

"And  you're  going  to  dance  to-night  with  this  fel- 
low?" said  Aldis  in  an  undertone.  "What  do  you  do 
it  for,  Zelie?  You  are  so  charming,  so  wonderful,  by 
yourself.  And  to  think  that  you  will  be  held  in  the 
arms  of  a  creature  like  that — it  is  revolting." 

And  yet,  even  as  he  said  the  words,  he  knew  that  it 
was  all  right  and  proper,  artistically  just  as  it  should 
be.  For  Bibi  Coupe-vide  was  the  mate  that  nature 
had  ordained  for  Zelie,  the  Snake-woman,  Zelie,  Queen 
of  the  Apaches,  who  was  in  truth  out  of  her  element  at 
Chamney  Castle. 

Zelie  stared  at  him  as  if  she  did  not  fully  understand. 
"Revolting?  To  dance  with  my  Bibi?  Ah,  mais  non, 
par  exemple,  for  Bibi  can  dance — you  shall  see  for 
yourself  to-night." 

Aldis  abandoned  the  task  as  hopeless.  At  any  rate, 
he  reflected,  this  objectionable  intruder  was  to  be 
packed  off  the  next  day.  And  though  Lord  Martyn 
had  yielded  on  this  occasion  to  Zelie's  solicitude,  hardly 
being  able  to  prevent  himself  under  the  circumstances, 
he  would  certainly  not  be  so  weak  again. 


158  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

"And  now  I  want  to  talk  to  Bibi  about  the  dance. 
You  must  go  away." 

Zelie  had  risen  and  was  standing  face  to  face  with 
the  actor,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  back,  her  face 
impertinently  tilted  up,  her  chin  prominent,  her  red, 
alluring  lips  parted  over  the  white,  cruel  teeth. 

Stephen  Aldis  forgot  the  Apache  standing  there  upon 
the  stage  within  a  few  yards  of  him,  forgot  everything 
save  that  this  woman  maddened  and  intoxicated  him. 
He  opened  his  arms,  and  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  re- 
frain from  kissing  her  where  she  stood. 

"You  black  witch !"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  have  done  to  me.  You  have  the 
fascination  of  all  the  evil  things  that  were  ever  put 
into  the  world.  You  make  my  brain  reel." 

She  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two,  still  smiling  up  at 
him,  revelling  in  her  power  over  the  brute  in  man.  She 
lifted  a  slim  forefinger,  and  shook  it  at  him  warningly, 
mockingly. 

Well  might  she  do  so.  For  the  little  scene  between 
them  was  doubly  observed.  Bibi,  slouching  about  the 
stage,  saw  it,  and  scowled  darkly  under  his  dark  brows, 
while  Cecily,  standing  among  the  palms  by  one  of  the 
windows,  saw  it  too,  and,  for  all  the  warmth  of  the  day, 
her  heart  felt  numb  and  cold  within  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"WHO  is  that  fellow  ?"  demanded  Bibi,  as  soon  as  Aldis 
had  reluctantly  taken  his  departure.  "He  has  the  mug 
of  a  cabotin — an  actor.  I  don't,  like  him." 

"You're  quite  right,  Bibi,"  responded  Zelie,  suavely 
kissing  her  fingers  to  Aldis,  who  had  turned,  as  he 
reached  the  great  central  window  of  the  hall  which 
opened  upon  the  terrace,  for  a  last  glance  at  the  stage. 
"M.  Aldis  is  an  actor.  He  is  a  good  friend  of  mine." 

"I  don't  like  him,"  repeated  Bibi.  He  seized  the 
girl's  hands  and  held  them  tight.  "This  M.  Aldis— I 
know  something  of  him.  He  had  best  look  to  himself. 
And  as  for  you,  understand  once  more,  ma  fille,"  he 
went  on,  "that  though  I  give  you  a  free  hand,  there's 
to  be  no  falling  in  love.  You  belong  to  Bibi." 

Zelie  frowned  a  little,  but  nevertheless  thought  it 
well  to  humour  the  man.  It  would  be  time  enough  to 
free  herself  from  him  when  he  had  carried  out  the 
part  which  she  had  allotted  to  him.  "You  have  noth- 
ing to  fear,  mon  Bibi"  she  murmured.  "All  that  I  do 
is  for  my  interests — and  yours.  There  is  no  other 
thought  but  that  in  my  brain.  I  am  yours,  and  it  is 
for  us  that  I  work.  One  day  when  your  pockets  are 
full  of  money  you  will  know."  Bibi's  cupidity  was 
his  weakest  point,  and  Zelie  knew  how  to  make  the  best 
of  it. 

"Very  well,"  grumbled  the  Apache.  "As  long  as 
you  love  no  one  but  me — that's  the  main  point." 

159 


160  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

The  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  quick  under- 
tones. There  remained  a  great  deal  to  be  said,  how 
ever,  for  neither  Zelie  nor  Bibi  had  as  yet  been  able 
to  touch  upon  the  essential  topic  that  had  to  be  dis- 
cussed between  them.  And  the  conductor  of  the  or- 
chestra appeared  anxious  to  get  to  work  with  the  re- 
hearsing. 

With  her  usual  promptitude  Zelie  took  the  matter  in 
hand.  There  had  been  no  difficulty  as  to  the  score  of 
the  "Danse  du  Neant"  for  that  dance,  success  as  it  had 
been  in  Paris,  was  already  well  known  to  the  foreign 
musicians  whom  Lord  Martyn  had  engaged.  Zelie 
walked  up  to  the  conductor.  He  was  a  slim,  sleek- 
haired  Italian,  who,  however,  spoke  French,  and  who 
availed  himself  of  every  opportunity  to  leer  sug- 
gestively at  the  dancing-girl. 

Zelie  smiled  on  him,  quite  ready  to  exert  her  fas- 
cination— he  would  be  all  the  more  keen  upon  her 
success  when  the  time  for  the  performance  came;  he 
would  make  his  men  play  up,  and  would  see  to  it  that 
all  the  necessary  pauses  and  points  were  duly  observed. 
It  was  to  these  that  she  now  called  his  attention. 

She  expounded  them  to  him  briefly,  requesting  him 
to  run  over  the  music  once  or  twice  while  she  talked 
to  her  friend. 

The  conductor  smiled  and  bowed,  and  Zelie,  gratify- 
ing him  with  another  fascinating  glance,  turned  away 
and,  humming  the  melody  of  the  dance,  pirouetted 
lightly  up  the  stage  till  she  was  once  more  by  Bibi's 
side. 

"Now  we  can  talk,"  she  said.  "We  can  have  a  few 
minutes  without  interruption.  But  we  must  be  brief. 
Why  did  you  come  here?"  She  regarded  him  with  a 
certain  contempt.  "Ah,  but  I  know,  I  can  guess,"  she 
went  on.  "You  have  those  papers  which  were  in  the 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  161 

pocket  of  Lord  Martyn's  coat.  You  came  to  blackmail. 
Is  it  not  so  ?" 

Bibi  responded  with  a  surly  nod.  What  was  the  use 
of  denying  the  obvious?  "I  didn't  know  you  were 
here,"  he  muttered.  "How  was  I  to  know  ?  I  needed 
money  since  I  had  to  escape  from  the  country  in  a 
hurry.  You  didn't  give  me  enough.  I  was  at  Selwood, 
you  know  why,  and  I  found  out  that  this  Lord  Martyn 
lived  in  the  neighbourhood.  It's  simple,  isn't  it?" 

"You  haven't  betrayed  me?"  she  asked  anxiously, 
tapping  the  boards  of  the  stage  impatiently  with  her 
heel.  "You  haven't  said  a  word  to  Lord  Martyn  to 
indicate  that  it  was  I  who  gave  you  the  coat?  If  you 
have  it  may  ruin  my  chances." 

"Not  a  word,"  he  replied.  "I  was  too  clever  for 
that  Zelie."  He  drew  up  his  rounded  shoulders  and 
leered.  "I  saw  how  things  stood,  and  I  invented  a 
story,  a  clever  story.  This  milor  and  I,  we  understand 
each  other.  We  have  made  a  harmonious  agreement. 
All  was  well,  Zelie,  till  you  came  upon  the  scene  and 
spoilt  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked.  Then,  suddenly, 
she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  ears,  as  discordant  sounds 
reached  her  from  the  orchestra. 

"Ah  mats  non,  mais  non"  she  exclaimed,  darting 
forward  to  the  footlights.  "It's  not  like  that.  Would 
you  that  we  dance  that  measure  to  jig  time?"  She 
spread  out  her  hands,  appealing  pathetically  to  the 
conductor. 

She  beat  time  with  her  finger  while  the  orchestra 
repeated  the  passage,  then  she  turned  to  Bibi.  "What 
do  you  mean,"  she  repeated,  "that  I  spoilt  it  all?" 

"By  insisting  that  I  should  stay  at  milords  castle  the 
night,"  he  grumbled.  "Couldn't  you  see  that  I  didn't 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

want  to — that  I  had  other  plans  ?  They  were  on  your 
account,  those  plans,  and  you  have  upset  them." 

Zelie's  eyes  became  mere  slits.  "What  were  your 
plans?"  she  inquired. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  drawing  her  still 
further  back  into  the  wnigs.  She  had  to  bend  her 
head  to  him  to  catch  the  whispered  words.  The 
orchestra  was  playing  its  loudest  just  then. 

"What  was  it  you  asked  me  to  do?  To  kill  Owen 
Mayne,  riest-ce  pas?  Very  well.  It  was  to-night  that 
he  would  have  died.  To-night — and  I  am  here  help- 
less." 

Zelie  wrinkled  her  brows.  "You  would  have  killed 
him  to-night — how,  then?" 

"There  will  be  a  burglary  at  Selwood  Manor,"  he 
explained  hurriedly.  "It  has  all  been  settled.  I  have 
been  working  with  a  man  to  whom  Alphonse  intro- 
duced me.  His  name  is  Jim  Lamprey,  and  Alphonse 
says  he's  the  cleverest  thief  in  the  country.  A  burglary 
— it  is  easy  for  a  man  to  be  killed  in  a  house  when 
thieves  break  in,  is  it  not  so?  I  have  been  hanging 
about  the  house  for  days,  yes  I,  myself.  More  than 
once  in  the  garden  and  the  park  I  saw  Owen  Mayne 
and  I  might  have  killed  him  then,  taken  him  by  sur- 
prise, fallen  upon  him  from  the  bushes — but  it  was  not 
safe.  I  might  not  have  got  away.  But  breaking  into 
the  house,  that  is  another  matter.  The  police  will  look 
out  for  the  thieves — for  a  gang — they  will  not  suspect 
Bibi." 

He  had  been  speaking  hurriedly,  gesticulating  with 
bony  fingers,  but  never  raising  his  voice  above  an 
undertone.  "And  now  you  have  spoilt  all  that,"  he 
growled,  "and  Heaven  alone  knows  why  you  wanted  to 
keep  me  at  Chamney  Castle." 

Zelie  had  listened  without  interrupting.    The  frown 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  163 

upon  her  forehead  deepened,  however,  as  the  man  ex- 
pounded his  plans.  When  he  had  finished  she  gave 
utterance  to  a  short,  disdainful  laugh.  "My  poor 
Bibi,"  she  said,  "it  is  you  who  have  been  deceived. 
This  man — this  Jim  Lamprey,  as  you  call  him — he 
must  have  known.  He  has  just  made  use  of  you  for 
his  own  purposes.  It  was  he,  I  expect,  who  settled 
to-night  for  the  burglary.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Yes."  Bibi  screwed  up  his  face  in  puzzled  won- 
der. "I  don't  understand  you,  Zelie." 

"No,  but  you  will,"  she  retorted.  "Your  burglar 
friend  fixed  on  to-night  for  the  simple  reason  that  there 
would  be  no  men  in  the  house  except  the  servants.  If 
you  had  not  been  a  fool,  you'd  have  found  it  out.  Both 
Owen  Mayne  and  his  friend,  Robin  Clithero,  will  be 
here" — she  stamped  her  tiny  foot.  "Do  I  speak 
plainly?  They  will  be  here,  at  Chamney  Castle." 

Bibi  collapsed.  He  had  sufficient  intelligence  to  see 
at  once  how  he  had  been  taken  in.  He  was  to  assist 
in  this  burglary,  to  have  taken  the  greater  part  of  the 
risk  upon  his  own  head,  and  for  no  object  whatever. 
The  man  whom  he  meant  to  slay  would  not  be  in  the 
house  at  all. 

Bibi  broke  out  into  a  volume  of  coarse  invective, 
no  longer  caring  about  the  modulation  of  his  voice.  It 
was  lucky  that  the  orchestra  was  still  playing  loudly. 

Zelie  laughed  at  him — she  mocked  him.  He  felt 
himself  lowered  in  her  eyes;  there  was  something  in 
her  scorn,  scorn  which  she  took  no  trouble  to  conceal 
from  him,  which  scorched  and  burnt  him. 

She  lifted  her  hand  and  put  an  end  to  the  current  of 
abuse.  At  any  other  time  she  would  not  have  spared 
Bibi  the  verbal  expression  of  her  disdain,  but  now — 
well,  she  had  her  own  plans,  and  it  was  for  Bibi  to 
retrieve  his  folly  by  carrying  them  gut. 


164  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"I  am  more  clever  than  you,  my  Bibi,"  she  said, 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "and  I  have  ar- 
ranged things  so  that  all  may  yet  go  well.  Your  M. 
Lamprey  may  have  his  burglary  to-night,  and  it  is  well 
for  you  that  you  will  not  be  there."  She  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  him — it  was  she  who  was  the  dominating 
spirit  now. 

"Do  you  guess  why  I  have  kept  you  at  Chamney," 
she  asked,  "why  I  made  the  excuse  that  we  should 
dance  together  to-night?" 

He  nodded  his  head.  He  was  subdued  in  spirit. 
"Because  Owen  Mayne  will  be  here,"  he  hazarded. 

"Exactly.  And  so,  what  you  would  have  failed  to 
do  at  Selwood  you  shall  do  at  Chamney.  I  have 
thought  it  all  out,  and  my  plans  are  made.  There  is 
less  danger  for  you,  Bibi,  than  there  would  have  been 
at  Selwood.  I  saw  it  in  a  flash,  and  so  I  asked  Lord 
Martyn  that  you  should  stay." 

Her  eyes  glittered  and  she  spoke  in  tones  of  sup- 
pressed excitement.  For  a  moment  the  voice  of  the 
conductor  could  be  heard  cursing  his  men  in  voluble 
Italian,  then  the  violins  began  to  wail  a  fierce,  cruel 
melody — the  essential  motive  of  the  "Danse  du  Neant." 

The  music  harmonised  with  the  spirit  of  Zelie's 
speech. 

"Listen  to  me  carefully,  Bibi,  mon  gars.  If  you  do 
exactly  as  I  tell  you  all  will  be  well.  This  afternoon, 
later  on,  I  will  take  you  to  a  summer-house  which  I 
have  seen  in  the  garden.  It  is  not  very  far  away,  but 
it  is  in  a  spot  where  they  are  hanging  no  lamps.  There 
is  a  hedge  just  behind  it  and  a  public  footpath.  To 
that  summer-house  I  will  lead  Owen  Mayne  to-night. 
It  will  be  after  supper  is  over,  when  we  shall  be  free 
to  do  as  we  please.  Yes,  I,  myself,  I  will  lead  him 
there — and  it  shall  be  to  his  death." 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  165 

She  stood  erect,  drawing  deep  breaths,  yet,  save  for 
the  quick  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom,  she  might  have 
been  talking  of  some  ordinary  topic — not  discussing 
treachery  and  murder. 

Bibi  glanced  at  her  with  suppressed  admiration.  He 
thought  her  fine.  And  she  was  his,  his  gosse!  His 
whole  being  swelled  with  pride.  Ah,  yes,  he  would 
do  this  thing  for  her — for  her  sake,  and  because  of  the 
money  which  she  had  promised  him. 

"You  must  break  down  the  hedge  and  trample  the 
grass  beyond  it,"  Zelie  went  on,  "so  that  it  will  appear 
as  if  someone,  some  thief,  had  entered  from  without. 
You  must  rifle  Owen  Mayne's  pockets  and  take  his 
watch ;  then  they  will  say,  'It  is  a  thief  who  has  done 
this  thing.'  When  all  is  over,  you  must  make  your 
way  back  to  the  house  and  let  people  see  you,  so  that 
there  shall  be  no  suspicion.  To  run  away  would  be 
to  betray  us.  To-morrow  you  will  go  at  the  time  which 
has  been  appointed  for  you.  You  understand  me?" 

Bibi  nodded — he  understood  clearly. 

Zelie  bent  her  lips  still  closer  to  his  ear.  "I  will 
contrive  it  so,"  she  whispered,  "that  he  stands  with 
his  back  turned  to  the  door  of  the  summer-house.  You 
are  concealed  among  the  bushes  close  at  hand.  You 
approach  quietly — very  quietly — so."  She  lifted  her- 
self upon  tiptoe  and  made  pantomimic  gestures  to  in- 
dicate what  he  should  do.  She  took  a  few  steps,  pass- 
ing in  front  of  him,  and  she  had  a  movement  of  her 
shoulders  that  was  animal,  feline,  curiously  suggestive 
of  the  panther  to  which  she  had  been  compared. 

"You  have  the  knife  in  your  hand.  He  is  standing 
there  with  his  back  turned — what  could  be  easier  ?  You 
lift  your  hand — you  strike — so — it  is  all  over." 

She  was  acting  the  part  as  she  spoke,  living  in  it. 
There  was  a  red  glow  before  her  eyes,  and  in  imagina- 


166  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

tion  she  already  saw  Owen  Mayne  lying  dead  at  her 
feet. 

"Good,"  said  Bibi,  hoarsely,  "I  will  do  it.  But  I 
have  no  knife — I — I  have  lost  mine." 

Zelie  was  still  in  possession  of  hers.  It  had  never 
left  her  since  the  day  she  picked  it  up  at  Owen's 
studio.  She  produced  it  now  and  pressed  it  into  Bibi's 
hand.  "He  shall  die  with  his  own  knife,"  she  muttered. 

A  few  more  hurried  sentences  and  all  was  arranged 
Zelie  gripped  Bibi  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  forward 
to  the  front  of  the  stage.  Here  she  dropped  a  smiling 
curtsy  to  the  oily  conductor — a  curtsy  that  was  alto- 
gether theatrical. 

"We  are  ready  now,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

The  conductor — he  was  a  big  man  in  his  way  and 
had  been  engaged  at  great  expense — bowed  graciously, 
swung  his  baton,  and  once  more  the  curious  wailing 
rhythm  of  the  opening  bars  of  the  melody  made  itself 
heard.  It  was  upon  such  notes  as  these  that  the  dance 
opened — almost  as  if  the  composer  had  sought  to  ex- 
press in  a  few  notes  the  sob  of  suffering  humanity — 
and  it  was  to  the  same  refrain  that  the  music  ended. 

A  dance — but  a  Dance  of  Death ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

STEPHEN  ALDIS  had  hardly  stepped  through  the  win- 
dow of  the  great  hall,  leaving  its  cool,  semi-obscurity 
behind  him — an  obscurity  due  to  the  heavily  banked 
up  palms  and  flowers — and  passed  into  the  sunlight, 
before  he  felt  a  light  touch  upon  his  arm  and  turned 
to  recognise  Cecily. 

He  muttered  an  oath  inwardly.  His  mind  had  been 
so  full  of  Zelie  that  the  sight  of  the  fair  girl,  who 
might  have  belonged  to  another  world  altogether,  came 
almost  as  an  offence  to  him.  Besides,  why  was  not 
Cecily  amusing  herself  with  the  other  guests?  Why 
was  she  looking  here  in  the  scorching  sun  upon  the 
terrace?  She  had  been  waiting  for  him,  of  course. 
It  was  ridiculous,  and  really  she  was  making  him  quite 
conspicuous. 

"My  dear  Cecily,  what  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?" 
he  said,  coming  to  an  abrupt  halt.  "Why,  I  thought 
your  complexion  was  your  first  care." 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,  Steve,"  she  admitted,  her 
tone  almost  humble.  "I  knew  you  must  come  out  di- 
rectly." 

"Why  should  you  wait?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"I've  seen  so  little  of  you,  Steve,"  she  pleaded.  "You 
are  not  going  to  avoid  me,  are  you?  I  thought  per- 
haps you'd  take  me  for  a  row  on  the  lake."  She  tried 
to  force  a  smile.  "Lady  Beatrice  wanted  me  to  go 
with  her  and  Sir  Donald.  But  I  thought  I  might  be 

167 


168  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

in  the  way.  It's  a  case  of  two's  company  there,  isn't 
it?" 

"You  might  just  as  well  have  gone,"  he  replied, 
taking  little  trouble  to  conceal  his  displeasure.  "Peo- 
ple must  have  noticed  you  hanging  about  here.  It 
makes  me  look  ridiculous." 

Her  hand  dropped  from  his  arm  and  they  walked 
on  together,  side  by  side,  in  silence.  They  descended 
the  broad  stone  staircase  and  were  soon  treading  upon 
the  soft,  velvety  grass  of  the  lawn. 

Aldis  felt  as  if  he  had  come  straight  from  the  heart 
of  some  wild,  primeval  forest — that  was  while  he  had 
been  in  that  darkened  room  with  Zelie — and  now  he 
had  been  brought  back,  forcibly  awakened  as  it  were 
to  ultra-civilisation  as  represented  by  this  delicate  hot- 
house plant,  forced  and  artificial,  this  fair  girl  who 
was  compelling  his  attention. 

He  was  fond  of  Cecily — yes,  certainly,  he  was  fond 
of  her,  but  not  now ;  the  sight  of  her  pale  cheeks  and 
pathetic  blue  eyes,  as  well  as  the  little  droop  of  her 
dainty  lips,  hurt  him — his  soul  was  not  attuned  to  hers 
at  that  moment.  It  was  the  fierce,  the  savage,  the 
primitive,  for  which  he  craved,  and  this  desire  which 
had  taken  possession  of  him  made  him  fierce  and 
savage  and  primitive  too. 

Cecily  had  met  him  in  an  evil  hour. 

She  slipped  her  hand  under  his  arm  once  more.  "I 
want  to  have  a  chat  with  you,  Steve,"  she  said.  "Don't 
let's  go  where  there's  anyone  else.  I'm  not  in  the  mood 
to  chatter  commonplaces.  Lady  Albyn  almost  drove 
me  crazy  this  morning  with  her  gossiping  about  the 
latest  stage  scandals.  She  seems  to  have  fixed  upon 
me  as  a  special  victim.  And  she's  over  there  with  her 
usual  boys  in  attendance,  and  her  wretched  little  pug 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  169 

dog."  The  girl  gave  a  nervous  shiver.  "I  hate  the 
little  beast." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  came  to  a  halt. 
"Where  shall  we  go  ?"  he  said  shortly.  Then  he  added 
quickly:  "I  haven't  got  long  to  give  you,  Cecily." 

A  flush  stole  over  the  girl's  cheeks.  She  knew 
what  he  meant.  He  was  to  meet  Zelie  when  she  had 
finished  rehearsing. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  lake,"  she  proposed  eagerly. 
There  were  paths  encircling  the  water  from  which  the 
house  could  not  be  seen — paths  which  were  made  for 
lovers;  surely  there,  if  there  was  any  power  in  her, 
she  could  make  Stephen  Aldis  forget  his  hateful  ob- 
session? Surely  there  she  could  win  him  back  to 
herself  ? 

"No,"  he  said  curtly,  "we  won't  go  as  far  as  that, 
Cecily.  It's  cool  and  shady  by  the  fountain,  and  I  see 
they've  put  some  chairs  there.  That  will  do  very 
well." 

He  led  the  way,  walking  with  long  strides,  the  girl 
having  some  difficulty  in  keeping  pace  with  him. 

The  fountain,  with  its  circular  marble  basin  and  its 
golden  Triton  and  dolphins,  lay  in  full  view  of  the 
terrace.  Aldis  seated  himself,  dropping  languidly  into 
a  low  deck  chair,  in  such  a  position  that  he  could  see 
at  once  when  Zelie  should  leave  the  hall  if,  as  he  ex- 
pected, she  should  follow  by  the  same  way  which  he 
had  taken. 

Cecily  seated  herself  upon  the  marble  rim  of  the 
fountain  and  for  a  few  moments  gazed  down  into  the 
water  without  speaking.  She  was  watching  the  gold 
and  silver  fish  darting  quickly  by,  sporting  in  the  clear 
water  of  the  pool. 

Aldis  lit  a  cigarette.     "Well,  now  you've  got  me 


170  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

here,"  he  said,  "you  don't  seem  eager  to  talk.  What's 
the  trouble,  Cecily  ?  Let's  have  it  out." 

"I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  trouble,"  she  mur- 
mured nervously.  "I — I  hope  there  isn't.  It's  only 
this,  Steve,  that  you've  been  very  kind  to  me  lately. 
You've  neglected  me  a  little,  haven't  you?  And — and 
I  feel  it." 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  bosom ;  her  heart  was 
beating  quickly,  painfully. 

Aldis  knocked  the  ash  .from  his  cigarette.  "I  don'd 
know  about  neglecting  you,"  he  said.  "We've  always 
been  the  best  of  friends,  Cecily,  and  I  hope  we  shall 
remain  so.  It's  to  our  mutual  interest,  isn't  it?  The 
public  like  to  see  us  acting  together,  and  I'm  quite 
ready  to  promise  you  the  part  of  Maisie  when  we  put 
up  The  Golden  East.  That's  one  of  the  fondest  wishes 
of  your  heart,  isn't  it?  Only,  for  Heaven's  sake,  my 
dear  girl,  don't  always  be  hanging  about  me  and  mak- 
ing me  conspicuous.  People  have  said  all  sorts  of 
things  already  which  are  not  a  bit  justified  by  fact. 
I  haven't  worried  my  head  about  it,  and  don't  mean 
to  unless  you  compel  me." 

He  was  trying,  even  against  the  instincts  that  ani- 
mated him  at  that  moment,  to  let  her  down  gently. 
He  knew  how  eager  she  was  to  play  that  part  in  his 
next  production.  Surely  she  should  be  contented  with 
the  promise  he  had  just  given  her? 

Cecily  had  deceived  herself  with  false  hopes — that 
was  the  tragedy  of  it.  She  had  believed  that  she  had 
succeeded  where  so  many  other  women  had  failed.  But 
those  happy  dreams  were  over  now,  and  she  was 
learning  the  bitter  lesson  of  her  own  weakness.  She 
was  treading  a  path  which  others  had  trodden  before 
her,  but  for  Cecily  Cuthbert  the  weeds  were  more  rank 
and  the  thorns  more  sharp  than  her  predecessors  had 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  171 

found  them.  It  was  a  matter  of  temperament,  no 
more  than  that. 

"I  thought,"  Cecily  faltered  out  the  words,  "that 
you  cared  a  little,  Steve.  It  isn't  only  a  matter  of 
being  given  a  part  in  your  next  piece.  I'm  very  glad 
of  that,  but— but " 

Her  voice  trembled  and  broke,  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes — and  Aldis  hated  tears. 

"But,  what?"  he  exclaimed  almost  roughly.  Why 
on  earth  couldn't  the  girl  behave  sensibly? 

"One  can't  be  always  an  actress,  you  know,"  she 
faltered.  "One  is  a  woman  in  spite  of  oneself.  I 
thought  you  cared  for  me,  Steve.  I  suppose  I  was 
wrong."  Suddenly  she  threw  restraint  aside.  "Oh, 
Steve,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  together,  "why 
did  you  make  me  love  you?" 

Tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Cecily's  courage  had 
broken  down,  the  strain  of  the  last  few  days  had 
proved  too  great;  she  had  reached  the  breaking-point. 

The  man  threw  his  cigarette  away,  crossed  his  legs, 
and  knitted  his  brows.  It  was  really  very  aggravating, 
and  this  sort  of  thing  must  not  be  allowed  to  go  on. 
Why  couldn't  Cecily  behave  like  those  other  women 
whom  he  had  kissed  and  was  ready  to  kiss  again? 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  tragic,  Cis,"  he  said, 
forcing  himself  to  speak  lightly.  "Of  course,  I'm  very 
fond  of  you,  and  when  I'm  fond  of  a  woman  I  can't 
help  letting  her  know  of  it.  It's  my  nature.  I've  not 
changed  towards  you  a  bit,  and  if  you  don't  fidget  me 
with  your  absurd  jealousy  you'll  find  me  just  the  same 
as  ever.  What  more  can  you  ask  ?" 

She  plunged  her  hand  into  the  water,  and  then  lifted 
it,  dripping  wet  as  it  was,  to  her  brow.  "You  are 
hard  and  cruel,"  she  cried,  "and  you  break  women's 
hearts  for  your  pleasure.  You  have  won  my  love, 


173  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Steve — you  can't  deny  it,  that  you  sought  to  make  me 
love  you — and  now  you  would  throw  me  over  because 
another  woman's  face  has  caught  your  fancy.  And 
it's  the  face  of  a  wicked  woman,  of  one  who  will  hurt 
you,  who  will  kiss  you  to  your  undoing." 

A  shudder  convulsed  her  frame.  She  stood  erect, 
and  spoke  with  a  concentration  of  passion  such  as  he 
had  never  suspected  of  her.  Light,  smiling,  artificial 
Cecily !  She  had  never  even  played  at  real  drama  upon 
the  stage — but  she  was  playing  it  now  upon  the  broader 
stage  of  life. 

"She  has  stolen  you  from  me" — the  words  came 
from  between  her  closed  teeth — "and  it's  to  her  that 
I  must  give  you  up.  Oh,  that  viper  in  human  form, 
that  snake-woman,  how  I  hate  her !  How  I  hate  her ! 
But  she  shall  never  have  you,  Steve — never,  never !" 

Brutal  words  rose  to  the  man's  lips.  This  sort  of 
thing  was  absurd,  and  must  not  be  allowed  to  continue. 
Cecily  must  be  made  to  understand  that  she  had  no 
claim  upon  him,  no  claim  at  all. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  presume  to  inter- 
fere," he  said,  regarding  her  harshly.  "It's  nothing  to 
do  with  you.  We  are  not  engaged." 

The  girl  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  without  re- 
sponse, then  a  moan,  a  deep,  sobbing  breath,  broke 
from  between  her  lips,  and  she  sank  down  upon  her 
knees  beside  the  marble  basin,  her  hands  trailing  over 
the  rim  of  it,  the  fingers  immersed  in  the  water. 

Aldis  glanced  anxiously  in  the  direction  of  the  group 
of  people  collected  upon  the  further  lawn,  then,  because 
it  was  not  his  way  to  be  harsh  with  women,  he  stepped 
up  to  the  sobbing  girl  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"Let's  have  no  more  of  this  nonsense,  Cecily,"  he 
said.  "You  are  foolishly,  ridiculously  jealous,  and  you 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  173 

are  making  a  tremendous  fuss  about  nothing.  Pull 
yourself  together,  my  dear.  Go  indoors  and  bathe 
your  eyes — you're  a  bit  hysterical.  Next  time  we  meet 
we'll  laugh  together  over  this  silly  scene." 

Cecily  lifted  her  head  and  allowed  a  wan  little  smile 
to  flutter  about  her  lips.  Unfortunately  at  that  mo- 
ment Zelie  appeared  upon  the  terrace,  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  ballroom  window.  She  glanced  up  and 
down  and  tfien  turned  away.  In  another  minute  she 
would  disappear  round  the  wing  of  the  house. 

Stephen  Aldis  muttered  a  few  hasty  words  to  his 
companion,  and  was  about  to  follow.  But  Cecily  seized 
his  hand,  holding  it  tightly. 

"Don't  go!"  she  begged  of  him.  "Oh,  Steve,  for 
God's  sake,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  don't  go !" 

But  he  wrenched  himself  free,  and  when  the  girl 
sought  to  grasp  his  arm,  to  hold  him  back,  he  thrust 
her  from  him,  nor  did  he  spare  her  the  oath  which 
rose  to  his  lips. 

"You're  behaving  like  a  damned  hysterical  fool, 
Cecily !"  he  exclaimed  roughly.  Then  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  stalked  away. 

Cecily  stood  there  by  the  fountain,  the  warm  after- 
noon sun  glistening  on  her  flaxen  hair  and  on  her  pale 
cheeks,  unwontedly  furrowed  by  tears. 

She  lifted  her  hand  to  her  throat  and  choked  down 
the  sob  that  shook  her.  She  watched  Aldis  as  he 
crossed  the  lawn,  mounted  the  terrace  steps,  and  came 
up  at  last  with  Zelie.  She  could  not  distinguish  their 
faces,  but  she  was  sure  the  dancer  laughed — the  ca- 
joling, tempting  laugh  of  a  siren. 

They  stood  a  moment,  and  then,  presently,  side  by 
side,  they  disappeared. 

"I  won't  give  him  up  to  her!"  Cecily  cried  aloud, 
and  she  raised  her  clasped  hands  as  though  she  were 


174*  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

indeed  pronouncing  an  oath.  "She  shall  not  triumph 
over  me,  that  nightmare  woman  of  evil!  His  kisses 
are  on  my  lips — I  can  feel  the  burn  of  them  still — 
and  shall  he  kiss  another  woman's  lips  after  that?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  great  drawing-room  was  well  filled  when  the 
Selwood  Manor  party  arrived  at  Chamney  Castle  that 
night.  Fresh  guests  were  pouring  in,  but  Lord  Mar- 
tyn  found  time  to  speak  a  few  words  of  congratulation 
to  Owen  and  Lavender.  He  had  already  heard  of  the 
engagement,  though  it  was  barely  a  day  old.  There 
had  been  several  callers  at  the  Manor,  to  whom  the 
news  had  been  imparted,  and,  in  the  country,  this  kind 
of  intelligence  travels  quickly. 

"The  best  of  good  luck  to  you  both,"  he  said, 
heartily  shaking  them  by  the  hand.  "I  feel  almost 
like  the  fairy  godmother.  Yes,  Mayne,  I  had  your 
letter — I  got  it  at  the  club.  I  was  only  too  pleased  to 
bring  you  and  your  aunt  together.  Just  a  happy 
coincidence,  wasn't  it?  You're  to  be  congratulated, 
my  dear  fellow" — he  drew  Owen  a  little  aside — "she's 
as  sweet  a  girl  as  the  heart  of  man  could  desire." 

"She  is,"  agreed  Owen. 

"You'll  have  to  back-water  a  bit  now,  though,"  smiled 
Martyn ;  "give  up  the  frivolity  of  studio  life  and  so  on, 
what?"  He  was  thinking  of  Zelie,  who  had  been  so 
anxious  to  know  Owen's  address.  "By  the  way,"  he 
added,  "you'll  meet  a  Paris  friend  of  yours  here  to- 
night— a  lady." 

"Shall  I  ?"  said  Owen,  but  without  interest.  "You've 
got  such  a  representative  crowd,  Martyn,  that  I  dare 
say  I  shall  meet  a  lot.  But  who's  the  particular  lady  ?" 

175 


176  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"You'll  see  all  in  good  time,"  was  the  response. 
"I  won't  spoil  sport  by  telling  you.  But  remember" — 
Martyn  shook  a  warning  forefinger — "you're  an  en- 
gaged man." 

He  bustled  off  to  welcome  some  fresh  guests,  leaving 
Owen  to  return  to  Lavender,  who  was  already  sur- 
rounded by  a  bevy  of  feminine  friends  all  anxious  to 
know  how  soon  the  wedding  would  be.  He  felt  him- 
self the  cynosure  of  many  eyes  and  guessed  that  he 
was  being  weighed  in  the  balance.  He  judged  that  the 
general  result  was  satisfactory — for  the  ladies  smiled 
upon  him — but  this  was  no  salve  to  his  conscience, 
which  was  smiting  him  ridiculously,  and  he  had  a  hate- 
ful feeling  that  people  must  read  his  duplicity  in  his 
face. 

He  had  had  this  idea  once  or  twice  with  Lavender. 
Her  eyes  were  so  pure  and  he  could  not  always  meet 
them  as  he  would  have  liked. 

The  performance  in  the  great  hall  was  to  begin  at 
ten  and  was  calculated  to  last  a  couple  of  hours.  It 
was  not  a  formal  entertainment — people  might  come 
and  go  as  they  pleased.  There  were  no  long  rows  of 
seats  stretching  across  from  side  to  side,  but  com- 
fortable chairs  were  scattered  about  the  room  anyhow. 
For  those  who  preferred  it  there  was  a  military  band 
in  the  garden,  to  say  nothing  of  the  illuminated  lake, 
walks  and  terraces ;  but  the  majority  of  the  guests  pre- 
ferred to  watch  the  performance,  for  rumours  of  sen- 
sational "turns"  had  been  whispered  abroad.  The  or- 
chestra itself,  under  the  control  of  the  celebrated  con- 
ductor Signor  Cavini,  was  worth  going  miles  to  hear. 

Owen  and  Lavender  found  comfortable  seats  in  the 
hall,  where  they  commanded  an  excellent  view  of  the 
stage.  Seated  next  to  them  was  a  prim  dowager  and 
her  meek  husband.  The  latter  had  apparently  insti- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  177 

gated  his  spouse  to  accept  the  invitation,  and  she  was 
making  him  responsible  for  the  various  shocks  she  had 
already  received.  All  this  while  it  was  palpable  from 
her  keen,  roving  eyes  and  generally  interested  mien 
that  she  was  enjoying  herself  immensely. 

"To  think  of  it,"  Owen  heard  her  say,  "that  singing 
girl  from  the  Star — what's  her  name? — Cecily  Cuth- 
bert,  yes,  that's  it — here,  and  as  a  guest !  And  lots  of 
others  of  the  same  kind.  People  we  should  feed  in 
the  servants'  hall !  Guests !" 

"But,  my  dear  Maria,"  whispered  the  man  timidly, 
"Miss  Cuthbert  is  quite  a  lady  by  birth.  Besides,  it 
isn't  birth,  you  know,  that  is  a  passport  with  our  host. 
It's  cleverness!" 

"People  have  no  right  to  be  clever  unless  they  are 
well  born,"  snorted  the  lady.  "I  call  it  impudent." 
She  sighed.  "I  don't  know  what  we  are  coming  to  in 
these  degenerate  days." 

Robin,  who,  with  Captain  Ferrars  and  a  girl  friend 
of  the  latter 's,  was  sitting  just  behind  Owen,  over- 
heard, too,  and  broke  into  a  sniggle.  The  dowager 
turned  a  supercilious  lorgnette  upon  him  until  he  suc- 
cumbed. Then  she  placidly  continued  her  conversation. 

"And  I  hear  there's  to  be  a  dancing  girl  on  the 
stage — some  French  hussy — I  suppose  she's  a  guest, 
too.  They  tell  me" — here  she  lowered  her  voice — 
"that  she  comes  from  some  vile  Paris  haunt,  and  that 
her  dancing  is  positively  indecent.  Well,  I  shall  be 
able  to  judge  of  that  after  I've  seen  the  performance 
right  through." 

The  good  lady  settled  herself  in  her  chair  with  the 
evident  intention  of  missing  nothing  and  finding  fault 
with  all. 

"Remember  that  you  brought  me,  James,"  she  said, 
"to  see  the  improper  dancing  of  a  French  drab," 


178  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Owen  wondered  vaguely  who  the  French  drab  might 
be,  but  he  had  no  suspicions.  Programmes  had  not 
been  provided,  the  entertainment  being  of  so  informal 
a  nature.  Besides,  most  of  the  performers  were  too 
well  known  in  their  particular  line  to  need  any  intro- 
duction. 

Silence  fell  upon  the  great  hall  when  Signer  Cavini, 
sleeker  and  more  self-assertive  than  ever,  rose,  bowed 
to  the  audience,  and  then  gave  a  preliminary  flourish 
of  his  baton  as  a  signal  for  the  overture  to  commence. 
This  had  been  specially  composed  by  Lord  Martyn, 
who  was  himself  a  musician  of  no  mean  order,  and  it 
was  in  many  ways  a  remarkable  piece  of  work. 

For,  in  some  subtle  manner,  it  was  suggestive  of 
his  own  outlook  upon  life.  To  Owen's  ears  the  music 
was  a  delight  because  of  its  weird  contrasts,  its  quaint 
gradations  of  symphony,  its  union  of  the  sublime  and 
the  ridiculous.  One  felt  that  the  composer  had  per- 
formed his  task  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  There 
were  moments  when  the  soul  of  the  listener  was  lifted 
up  by  an  exalted  passage,  only  to  be  brought  to  earth 
again  directly  by  a  fantastic  suggestion  of  some  popu- 
lar lilt  of  the  day.  Lord  Martyn  had  done  his  share 
towards  the  unconventionality  of  the  entertainment. 

Following  this  introduction,  turn  succeeded  turn,  and 
every  one  presented  its  own  surprise  to  the  audience. 
Celebrities  appeared  upon  the  stage  whose  talents  in 
that  direction  had  never  been  suspected.  There  was 
Leonard  Bryce,  for  instance,  who  had  made  such  a 
brave  fight  for  his  party  at  the  Daleshire  by-election 
— he  delivered  a  stump-speech  that  was  remarkable  for 
its  wit  as  well  as  for  its  trenchant  sarcasm  of  the 
Government,  sarcasm  that  was  cleverly  veiled  by  his 
assumed  character. 

Gilbert  Farrington,  the  artist,  achieved  success  with 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  179 

his  lightning  sketches  of  well-known  personalities,  most 
of  whom  were  present  to  recognise  and  applaud  the 
caricatures  of  themselves;  Maurice  Gothard,  the 
pianist,  astonished  the  assembly  by  showing  himself 
almost  as  great  a  master  of  the  violin ;  Marcelle  Grelat, 
of  the  Paris  Opera,  sang  chansonettes  such  as  had  been 
associated  with  the  name  of  Berthe  Montjoy;  while 
the  latter  proved  herself  quite  capable  of  shining  in 
the  higher  realms  of  her  art. 

And  so  on — and  so  on.  It  was  an  entertainment  at 
which  the  unexpected  reigned  supreme.  It  was  a  tri- 
umph for  Lord  Martyn. 

Stephen  Aldis  and  Cecily  appeared  upon  the  stage 
together,  and  were  greeted  as  popular  favourites. 
They  sang  a  duet  from  the  much-bepuffed  Golden  East. 
Aldis  had  decided  upon  this  coup  almost  at  the  last 
moment,  in  order  to  convince  Cecily  of  his  sincerity 
when  he  had  promised  her  the  part  of  Maisie. 

They  appeared  in  ordinary  evening  dress,  but  the 
song  had  a  haunting  refrain  which  was  bound  to  ensure 
its  popularity.  Unfortunately  Aldis  had  not  con- 
sidered the  sense  of  the  words  which  Cecily  would  have 
to  sing.  To  him  a  song  was  merely  a  song — that  it 
should  be  made  to  have  any  personal  significance  to  the 
singer  was  absurd.  He  could  play  an  impassioned 
scene  and  remain  cold. 

It  was  not  so  with  Cecily  in  the  present  excited  state 
of  her  nerves.  This  ardent  love-song  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  Aldis,  in  his  presumed  character,  had 
to  clasp  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her.  And  she  knew 
he  did  it  utterly  without  feeling. 

"Love,  will  you  crown  me  with  roses, 

Love,  will  you  deck  me  with  rue? 
Come  with  your  joy  or  your  sorrow, 
Love — so  you  be  but  true." 


180  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

She  had  to  sing  these  words.  A  silly  jingle  of  sound, 
but  it  hurt  her.  In  the  second  verse  she  broke  down. 
If  they  had  been  in  stage  costume  it  might  have  been 
different — she  could  perhaps  have  dispelled  the  illu- 
sion that  Stephen  and  she  were  acting.  As  it  was  she 
turned  and  saw  him  gazing  at  her  tenderly  and  wist- 
fully— a  studied  look  which  he  had  always  found  most 
successful,  especially  with  the  ladies  of  the  audience — 
and  she  could  not  endure  it.  She  sang  a  false  note, 
then  her  voice  shook  painfully,  she  lifted  her  hand  to 
her  throat,  and  quivered  to  silence. 

"I — I'm  sorry.  Forgive  me,"  She  cast  an  agonising 
glance  at  Aldis,  then  advanced,  trembling,  to  the  foot- 
lights, where  she  repeated  her  pitiful  little  apology. 
The  audience  broke  into  an  encouraging  roar  of  ap- 
plause. She  bowed,  smiling  wanly,  then  Aldis  took  her 
by  the  hand  and  led  her  off.  The  curtain  fell,  and  the 
orchestra  struck  up  a  selection — but  it  could  not  hush 
the  wagging  of  many  tongues  that  had  opinions  to 
pass.  Why,  this  was  the  sensation  of  the  evening. 

But  Cecily  and  her  collapse  were  forgotten  when  the 
final  turn  was  announced,  and  the  curtain  rose  upon 
a  stage  draped  completely  in  black — fold  upon 
fold,  or  so  it  appeared,  of  filmy  gauze.  The  word  went 
round  that  the  new  French  dancing-girl  was  about  to 
appear.  Rumour  had  been  busy  as  to  her  marvellous 
talent,  but  none  knew  her  name.  Owen,  leaning  back, 
asked  Robin  if  he  had  heard  it,  but  the  latter  shook 
his  head. 

"What  extraordinary  music!"  Everyone  was  mak- 
ing the  same  remark.  Some  put  their  fingers  to  their 
ears.  The  violins  squealed  agonisingly,  the  bassoons 
wailed  like  the  wind  in  storm,  the  drums  thundered 
wrath  or  muttered  a  sullen  defiance.  It  was  the  war 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  181 

of  the  elements  before  they  fell  into  their,  allotted 
places  in  a  world  where  chaos  reigned. 

The  stage  was  empty  and  dark  as  the  world  it  por- 
trayed. Then,  subtly,  the  music  suggested  creation, 
and  one  could  imagine — one  could  almost  see — primi- 
tive man  emerge  from  his  cave,  climb  down  from  his 
tree  and  join  in  chase  of  the  wild  creatures  that  stam- 
peded through  trackless  forests  and  across  limitless 
plains.  Yet,  so  far,  all  that  had  happened  upon  the 
stage  was  an  increase  of  light — a  pale  white  light  that 
only  made  the  darkness  visible. 

And  then  she  came,  lifting  film  after  film  of  the 
gauzy  background  so  that  she  seemed  to  be  fashioning 
herself  a  shape  from  the  mist  of  untold  ages — Woman 
the  temptress — the  Zelie  of  an  epoch  when  time  knew 
no  reckoning — Zelie,  the  same  long  seons  ago  as  she 
appeared  to  the  world  of  to-day. 

She  was  clad  in  a  leopard-skin,  and  the  girdle  about 
her  waist  resembled  a  snake.  Her  arms  and  neck 
were  bare;  so,  too,  were  her  feet  and  her  legs  to  the 
knee.  Her  black  hair  hung  loose,  reaching  below  her 
waist.  She  advanced  to  the  footlights,  glancing  fear- 
fully over  her  shoulder  to  right  and  left  as  though  on 
her  guard  against  attack,  then  drew  herself  up  and 
laughed.  She  was  the  Woman  to  whom,  inscrutably, 
power  had  been  given  to  lure  men  to  destruction,  who 
trod  a  path  that  was  red  with  blood  and  sodden  with- 
tears.  A  crimson  light  played  about  her  feet  as  she 
stood  there — it  was  all-significant. 

"My  God — Zelie !"  Owen  half  rose  in  his  chair.  He 
had  turned  deathly  pale,  but  the  great  hall  was  in 
obscurity,  so  Lavender  could  not  see  his  face  at  that 
moment.  It  was  well  for  her  that  she  could  not. 

Robin  touched  his  shoulder  from  behind,  and  he  sank 
back  into  his  seat.  He  was  breathing  hard,  like  a 


183  TWO  AfACHES  OF  PARIS 

man  whose  throat  is  compressed.  His  finger  nails  bit 
into  his  palms,  but  he  was  silent. 

Zelie  danced  as  her  savage  prototype  might  have 
moved  and  danced.  She  was  alternately  stealthy  and 
fierce,  yielding  and  defiant.  She  was  the  woman  who 
gives  and  at  the  same  time  the  conqueror  who  takes. 
Those  who  watched  her  knew — for  every  movement 
had  its  suggestion — that  men,  naked  and  fierce,  fought 
for  her,  and  that  she  was  the  victor's  meed.  And  yet 
her  very  embrace  was  a  mockery — for  she  had  no  heart, 
no  soul. 

The  curtain  fell  and  the  audience  sat  spell-bound. 
The  orchestra  continued  to  make  weird  music  that  told 
of  the  passage  of  time  and  of  the  development  of 
knowledge.  Melody,  exotic  and  mystical,  had  taken 
the  place  of  fantastic  discord.  It  was  the  turn  of  man 
to  create,  and  man  had  created  unto  himself  his  gods. 

It  was  this  which  the  second  phase  of  the  dance 
portrayed.  Zelie  appeared  in  the  filmy  drapery  of 
classic  times.  She  represented  no  character  in  par- 
ticular— for  time  had  not  changed  her — she  was  still 
the  temptress,  whom  man  had  defied,  she  to  whom 
sacrifice  was  made  in  secret  groves,  who  received  as 
her  right  the  libation  of  her  creators'  lives.  She  was 
goddess  and  woman,  Aphrodite  and  Sappho,  shadowy 
exemplification  of  human  passion  and  creature  of  warm 
flesh  and  blood.  And  still  she  was  without  remorse — 
for  still  she  had  no  soul ! 

And  the  wonder  of  her  dancing  grew.  She  paraded 
the  stage  slowly,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  ghosts  of  all 
those  whom  love  had  tempted  to  folly  trod  in  her  train. 
The  stage  was  peopled  by  a  great  company.  The 
dancer  threw  herself  down  in  voluptuous  abandon  or 
stood  up  mocking.  Her  arms  were  writhing  snakes, 
her  eyes  shot  living  flame,  her  lips  were  stained  with 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  183 

blood.  She  led  her  phantom  host  to  the  gates  of 
heaven — or  hell — and  vanished. 

And  so  dance  succeeded  dance,  and  it  was  as  if  the 
audience  watched  the  evolution  of  the  world  in  its 
eternal  slavery  to  the  temptress.  She  was  there  always, 
though  it  might  only  be  some  subtle  gesture  that  in- 
dicated her  presence,  and  when  the  last  phase  com- 
menced— the  "Danse  du  Neant" — one  felt  that  the 
Zelie  of  to-day  had  lived  through  all  the  ages,  ever  the 
temptress,  ever  without  a  soul. 

In  the  obscurity  of  the  hall  Lavender  slipped  her 
hand  into  that  of  Owen,  but  found  his  cold  and  un- 
responsive. 

"Oh,  we  are  not  all  like  that,"  she  whispered  with 
a  shudder.  "There  are  good  women,  too." 

"It  is  an  allegory,"  he  muttered,  feeling  that  he 
must  say  something.  But,  in  truth,  he  had  paid  but 
small  heed  to  the  actual  significance  of  the  dance. 
For  his  brain  was  in  a  turmoil.  Zelie  was  there — and 
he  sat  by  the  side  of  Lavender ! 

"An  allegory  of  evil,"  murmured  the  girl.  Then  she 
was  silent. 

And  in  the  meanwhile  Bibi  had  appeared.  It  was 
not  difficult  for  the  spectators  to  build  up  the  back- 
ground of  that  dance — the  "Danse  du  Neant."  It  was 
a  defiance  thrown  at  law  and  convention,  an  exaltation 
of  degeneracy,  a  mockery  of  man's  attempt  to  raise 
himself  from  the  mire  of  his  animal  state.  There  was 
fierce  cruelty  in  it  and  passion  untrammelled.  There 
was  the  temptress  and  her  mate.  And  the  background 
of  the  dance  was  a  huge,  looming  scaffold. 

Yet  thousands  had  applauded  that  dance — laughed 
and  wept  over  it  according  to  their  dispositions — 
thousands  would  applaud  it  again.  Staid  British 
matrons  would  see  it  because  it  was  "the  thing."  They 


184*  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

would  take  their  daughters,  who  would  stare  with  inno- 
cent eyes  and  laugh  in  secret.  The  vice  of  it  would  be 
slurred  over  in  the  cleverness  of  the  dancers. 

It  was  this  that  Lord  Martyn  had  anticipated — this 
that  he  was  putting  to  the  test.  "What  fools  these 
mortals  be" — that  was  the  assumption  upon  which  he 
acted. 

And  he  had  not  misjudged  his  world.  The  curtain 
fell.  There  was  a  moment  of  intense  silence.  Then  the 
duchess,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front  by  the  side  of 
Lord  Martyn,  clapped  her  hands. 

"Wonderful — wonderful !"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  cue  was  taken  up.  The  great  hall  rang  with 
frantic  applause. 


HAD  Lavender  been  less  innocent  and  unsuspicious 
she  might  have  found  food  for  considerable  reflection 
in  her  lover's  behaviour  before  and  during  supper  that 
night.  To  begin  with,  he  had  deserted  her  during 
the  interval  between  the  performance  and  supper,  an 
interval  which  Lord  Martyn's  guests  filled  up  by  col- 
lecting in  groups  and  discussing  the  performance,  by 
wandering  out  on  the  terrace,  or  by  strolling  in  the 
picture  gallery. 

Everybody  was  anxious  to  know  what  everybody 
else  thought  of  the  entertainment,  and  Zelie  was  the 
prime  subject  of  conversation.  The  duchess  had  ap- 
proved of  her,  so  the  rest  of  the  company  approved 
too.  Cecily  came  in  for  some  notice  as  well;  why  on 
earth  had  she  broken  down?  There  were  many  who 
scented  a  scandal. 

It  had  been  settled,  of  course,  that  Lavender  was  to 
be  taken  in  to  supper  by  Owen.  A  little  party  had 
been  arranged  which  was  to  include  Robin  and  the 
Ferrars.  But  Owen  had  to  be  reminded  of  this,  and  he 
appeared  strangely  agitated  when  he  stooped  over 
to  Robin  and  whispered  something  in  the  ear  of  the 
latter.  Robin  seemed  disturbed  too.  Lavender  noticed 
that  as  well. 

He  had  answered  in  the  same  undertone;  then  he 
had  turned  to  her  and  to  Miss  Ferrars,  offering  to  take 
them  for  a  stroll  outside. 

185 


186  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

"I'm  simply  pining  for  a  cigarette,"  he  said,  "and 
I'm  sure  you  young  ladies  will  like  a  breath  of  fresh 
air.  Owen  wants  to  speak  to  an  old  friend,  someone 
whom  he  has  not  seen  for  ages.  He'll  join  us  again 
before  supper  is  announced." 

So  they  went  out  on  the  terrace,  leaving  Owen  to 
lose  himself  amid  the  chattering  groups  of  people  that 
still  lingered  in  the  great  hall.  Lavender  would  have 
liked  to  ask  him  if  there  was  any  trouble  connected 
with  the  friend  he  was  looking  for,  but  she  did  not  like 
to,  and  Robin  hurried  her  away. 

Owen  was  telling  himself  that  he  must  see  Zelie — 
that  was  the  one  all-absorbing  thought  in  his  brain. 
Nothing  else  mattered.  He  must  see  and  talk  with 
Zelie. 

Lord  Martyn  was  there,  standing  close  to  the  stage, 
receiving  the  congratulations  of  his  many  friends. 
Owen  was  conscious  of  a  hum  of  conversation  on  all 
sides  of  him,  and  to  his  excited  ears  everyone  seemed 
to  be  talking  of  Zelie. 

"She's  wonderful — marvellous — never  seen  such 
dancing  in  my  life.  It  isn't  so  much  what  she  actually 
does  as  what  she  makes  one  feel.  I  seem  to  have  lived 
through  countless  ages  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes." 
So  a  grey-bearded,  sallow-cheeked  man,  standing  at 
Owen's  elbow,  was  saying  to  his  companion,  a  woman 
of  uncertain  age  and  keenly  intelligent  face. 

Owen  recognised  them  both.  The  man  was  Nigel 
Snow,  the  poet,  while  the  woman  was  Mary  Fordham, 
one  of  the  most  talented  writers  of  the  day. 

"She's  so  clever,"  responded  the  latter,  who  always 
lived  up  to  her  reputation  for  saying  smart  things, 
"that  I'm  quite  sure  she  must  be  wholly  ignorant  and 
uneducated.  She  couldn't  dance  like  that  if  she  studied 
much.  The  whole  thing  is  spontaneous  with  her — a 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  187 

sort  of  second  nature.  I  hope  she'll  never  study — she 
might  become  artistic,  and  that  would  ruin  her." 

Snow  laughed.  "There's  a  poem,"  he  said,  "in 
every  movement  of  her.  I  could  write  a  sonnet  on  the 
poise  of  her  head.  The  writhing  of  her  arms — I  think 
I  could  express  that  best  in  a  ballade.  But  as  for  all 
I've  felt  to-night — it  would  take  an  epic  to  do  it 
justice." 

It  was  the  same  thing  on  all  sides,  wherever  Owen 
moved  he  heard  Zelie's  praises  sung.  It  irritated  and 
maddened  him,  for  it  seemed  as  if  she,  who  was  his 
wife,  had  given  herself  to  the  world ;  as  if  this  success 
of  hers,  startling  and  unsuspected  as  it  was  to  him, 
had  separated  her  from  him,  made  her  independent. 

"I  can't  live  without  her,"  he  muttered  between  his 
clenched  teeth,  all  the  intensity  of  his  desire  for  the 
lithe,  feline  creature,  the  siren  who  had  enslaved  him, 
returning  in  full  force  and  sending  the  blood  gushing 
through  his  veins.  "Why,  I  don't  know  how  I've 
existed  all  these  weeks.  Upon  memory,  I  suppose,  and 
the  prospect  of  being  reunited  before  long.  Zelie,  I've 
cheated  and  lied  for  you.  I've  sacrificed  my  soul  at 
your  altar.  You  won't  desert  me  now." 

A  tall,  languid  young  man,  with  a  giggling  girl 
hanging  upon  his  arm,  was  standing  by  Owen  now.  Of 
course,  they  were  talking  of  Zelie. 

"Isn't  she  rippin'?"  the  man  was  saying.  "I  say, 
Hilda,  I  shall  get  introduced  to-night,  and  when  she 
comes  on  in  London,  as,  of  course,  she's  bound  to, 
I'll  be  able  to  make  the  runnin'  a  bit." 

"You're  a  naughty  boy,"  responded  his  companion, 
"and  you'll  get  yourself  into  trouble  one  of  these  days. 
Besides,  I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  me." 

"Oh,  you're  different,  Hilda,"  he  retorted.  "She's 
only  a  dancing-girl,  after  all." 


188  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

Hilda  smiled,  showing  her  two  rows  of  pearly  teeth. 
"It's  the  dancing-girl  who  gets  the  best  time,  nowa- 
days," she  remarked.  "I'd  willingly  give  up  being 
Lady  Hilda  and  the  privilege  of  making  a  bow  to 
royalty,  to  have  all  London  running  after  me  as  that 
girl,  whatever  her  name  is,  is  bound  to.  It  must  be 
just  glorious  to  pick  and  chose  one's  men — whereas 
I  have  to  put  up  with  you,  Edwin,  and  condone  your 
infidelities,  because  it's  supposed  to  be  the  right  thing 
that  we  should  be  engaged." 

She  spoke  half- jestingly,  half  in  earnest.  Owen 
turned  and  regarded  the  boy,  for  he  was  little  more, 
with  a  scowl.  The  young  puppy !  How  dare  he  speak 
of  "making  the  running"  with  Zelie?  It  was  to  this 
sort  of  thing  that  she  was  laying  herself  open. 

Owen  was  hot  with  suppressed  anger.  It  had  always 
been  his  pose  to  scoff  at  the  world — now  the  world 
was  mocking  him. 

He  had  thrust  his  way  through  the  crowd  by  now, 
till  he  was  standing  close  to  Lord  Martyn.  The  latter 
turned  and  saw  him. 

"Well,  my  dear  Mayne,"  he  remarked,  giving  a 
nod  and  a  smile  to  the  man  with  whom  he  had  just 
been  talking.  "What  do  you  think  of  my  surprise  ?" 

He  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  his  friend  and  led 
Owen  a  little  aside.  "It's  perfectly  ridiculous,"  he 
went  on,  "how  all  the  men  in  the  place  are  swarming 
round  me,  and  asking  to  be  introduced.  And  even 
the  ladies — you  see,  the  duchess  has  kindly  expressed 
approval,  and  wishes  to  congratulate  Zelie  in  person. 
And  Zelie  will  put  her  tongue  out  at  her  when  her 
back  is  turned — I'm  sure  of  that.  I'm  glad  you  came 
up,  as  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  Rathbone.  The  same  thing, 
of  course.  Sixty,  if  he's  a  day,  and  with  a  grown-up 
family — he  ought  to  know  better." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  189 

Owen  bit  his  lip,  for  the  position  was  a  hateful  one. 
How  could  he  who,  not  three  hours  ago,  had  pre- 
sented his  bride-elect  to  this  man,  proclaim  himself  for 
what  he  was — the  husband  of  Zelie? 

He  felt  that  Martyn,  though  the  latter  had  spoken 
lightly,  was  regarding  him  with  something  like  a  twin- 
kle in  his  expressive  black  eyes.  Probably,  Martyn  felt 
that  Owen  had  the  fever,  too. 

Yet  he  must  play  his  part — the  part  of  the  mere 
interested  acquaintance. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  think  she's  wonderful.  I  con- 
gratulate you  upon  your  find,  Martyn.  And  it's  quite 
true  that  Zelie  and  I  are  old  friends,  so  I'm  on  the 
look-out  for  her  in  order  to  offer  her  my  congratula- 
tions." 

"I  expect  she'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  said  Martyn : 
"In  fact,  I  told  her  that  I'd  meet  her  here  by  the 
stage.  So,  if  you  wait,  you'll  be  bound  to  see  her. 
Don't  make  Miss  Percivale  jealous,  though." 

Owen's  rather  sallow  cheeks  flushed  a  trifle,  then 
he  quickly  changed  the  subject  and  warmly  thanked 
his  friend  for  having  brought  about  the  meeting  be- 
tween himself  and  his  aunt.  "I've  only  just  been  told," 
he  remarked,  "that  you've  been  at  Chamney  all  the 
week.  If  I'd  heard  of  it  earlier  I  should  have  been 
over  to  see  you." 

Owen  heartily  wished  now  that  he  had  done  so. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  known  well  enough  that 
Martyn  was  at  home,  but  his  natural  indolence  had 
prevented  him  from  paying  a  visit  at  Chamney. 

The  two  men  talked  together  for  a  little  while 
longer,  and  presently  they  were  joined  by  Stephen 
Aldis.  The  actor  appeared  worried — Owen  thought 
it  must  be  on  account  of  Cecily's  breakdown — but  he 
began  at  once  to  talk  of  Zelie. 


190  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"Wasn't  she  wonderful?"  he  said,  enthusiastically. 
I'm  happy  to  have  been  the  first  to  congratulate  her, 
for  I  was  behind,  of  course.  She  said  she  wouldn't 
be  long  changing  her  dress." 

He  had  hardly  spoken  the  words  when  Zelie  herself 
appeared.  She  entered  the  hall  by  a  little  door  close 
to  the  stage,  a  door  that  was  almost  hidden  by  palms 
and  foliage.  She  stood  there  for  a  moment,  her  white 
face  and  neck  thrown  into  almost  startling  prominence 
by  the  heavy  green  of  the  background  and  by  her 
elaborate  black  satin  gown,  a  gown  that  was  relieved 
only  by  touches  of  crimson  almost  fantastically  in- 
serted among  the  jet  trimmings.  The  dress  fitted 
like  a  glove,  showing  every  line  of  the  sinuous  figure, 
while  it  was  daring  in  its  low  decolletage.  Zelie  wore 
no  jewellery  save  for  the  long  pendent  earrings  of  jet. 

A  murmur  went  up  from  the  whole  assembly  as 
she  stood  there,  and  people  craned  their  necks  to  see 
her  better.  She  glanced  about  her  with  an  almost 
defiant  air,  a  look  in  which  scorn  and  pride  were 
mingled,  then  she  advanced  with  the  curiously  feline 
movement  that  was  natural  to  her  to  the  spot  where 
Lord  Martyn  stood  with  his  friends. 

She  caught  sight  of  Owen,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
dangerously  as  they  settled  upon  him.  She  hardly  re- 
moved them  from  his  face  as  she  stood  there,  receiving 
the  congratulations  of  one  after  another.  It  seemed 
to  Owen,  as  he  gazed,  that  this  woman  was  less  than 
ever  human ;  she  was  a  soulless  thing,  a  creature  of 
a  world  of  phantasms,  a  world  that  he  had  created 
from  his  own  brain.  For  was  it  not  his  brain  that 
had  given  birth  to  Zelie  in  the  person  of  his  siren  of  the 
mountain  ?  She  was  as  he  had  made  her — evil,  but  he 
loved  her — how  he  loved  her ! 

Those  red  lips  of  her — lips  which  he  had  once  com- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  191 

pared  to  a  wound — they  were  smiling  upon  others  now, 
and  not  upon  him — maddening  smiles ;  her  small  white 
teeth,  why  did  they  make  him  think  of  a  vampire? 
Yet  he  didn't  mind,  so  long  as  it  was  his  blood  they 
craved;  and  her  eyes — they  shone  like  gems  upon 
her  admirers,  but  him  they  pierced  like  living  steel. 

His  turn  came  at  last,  Zelie  stretched  out  her  white 
hand  to  him,  and  he  took  it,  bending  his  head  and  mut- 
tering some  words  of  congratulation — anything  that 
first  came  into  his  head. 

She  addressed  him  as  she  might  a  casual  acquaint- 
ance, frankly  and  without  strain.  "Comment  ga,  va, 
mon  ami?  You  are  surprised  to  see  me  in  England — 
here  at  Chamney,  under  the  roof  of  my  good  friend, 
Milor  Martyn?" 

For  the  moment  Owen  was  tongue-tied.  What  could 
he  say  to  her,  here,  before  all  these  people  ?  And  why 
did  he  instinctively  feel  that  she  bore  him  malice  ?  Of 
course,  he  could  not  expect  that  she  should  greet  him 
in  any  other  way — she  was  showing  quite  exquisite 
tact — but,  still — there  was  a  threatening  depression  of 
the  corners  of  her  lip.  It  was  a  storm  signal  which 
he  recognised.  He  had  once  stood  with  Zelie  by  the 
cage  of  a  tigress  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  and  the 
beast  had  looked  up  at  them  from  its  meal — snarling. 
"Why,  Zelie,  that's  how  you  draw  your  lip  down  when 
you're  angry,"  he  had  said  laughing.  He  remembered 
that  now.  There  had  been  blood  upon  the  tiger's 
jaw,  too — just  as  there  might  be  blood  upon  Zelie's — 
so  scarlet  they  were. 

"I  must  see  you  alone — we  must  have  a  talk,"  he 
found  himself  saying  at  last.  "Can  you  spare  me  a 
little  of  your  time — after  supper  ?"  Such  trivial  words 
— but  how  vital ! 

It  was  exactly  what  she  desired.    "Yes,"  she  replied, 


192  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"after  supper,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  M.  Aldis 
will  spare  me  then,  I  know.  It  is  with  him  that  I  go 
in  to  supper.  And  you,  monsieur" — her  dark  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him,  seeming  to  probe  him  to  his  very 
soul — "you,  no  doubt,  will  be  with  your  charming 
fiancee f  May  I,  too,  offer  you  my  congratulations? 
I  have  heard  of  your  engagement." 

"Zelie !"  Why  should  she  torture  him  thus  ?  What 
he  had  done  was  for  her  sake.  He  had  told  her  so  in 
his  letter.  "Why  do  you  say  this  to  me  when  you 
know" — he  faltered — "you  know  that  it  is  you  and  you 
only " 

She  interrupted  him,  tapping  him  lightly  upon  the 
arm  with  her  fan.  "I  know  enough,"  she  responded, 
"ah,  but  quite  enough.  We  will  talk  of  this  again, 
mon  ami — after  supper." 

She  turned  away  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  a 
small  group  of  impatient  admirers.  Stephen  Aldis 
was  talking  in  an  undertone  to  Lord  Martyn,  whom  he 
had  drawn  a  little  aside.  Owen  hesitated  a  moment, 
then,  since  there  was  palpably  nothing  more  to  be  done 
or  said  for  the  time  being,  he  made  his  way,  as  best 
he  could,  from  the  still  crowded  hall,  and,  finding  a 
refreshment  buffet  near  the  main  entrance,  he  asked  for 
a  glass  of  brandy,  which  he  swallowed  at  a  gulp.  Then 
he  went  in  search  of  Lavender. 

Meanwhile  Zelie  was  still  enjoying  the  homage  of 
the  assembly,  so  that  Aldis  and  Martyn  found  them- 
selves able  to  talk  without  interruption.  The  former 
had  whispered  in  his  host's  ear  that  he  had  made  an 
alarming  discovery — he  had  opened  the  packet  of  let- 
ters which  had  been  restored  by  Bibi  Coupe-vide,  and 
had  found  that  two  of  the  most  important,  the  most 
damaging,  were  missing. 

"That  scoundrel  has  kept  them  back,"  he  exclaimed ; 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  193 

"but  he  shall  give  them  up — he  must  be  made  to  give 
them  up." 

Lord  Martyn  frowned,  for  this  was  an  unpleasant 
development,  and  anything  which  affected  Lady 
Beatrice  touched  him  very  closely. 

"Well,  we've  got  the  fellow  safely  in  hand,"  he  re- 
plied. "It's  a  good  thing,  after  all,  that  Zelie  insisted 
upon  having  him  to  dance  with  her.  There  are  no 
suspicions  in  his  mind,  so  we  can  afford  to  wait  till 
to-morrow,  Steve.  Take  my  advice,  and  leave  Bibi 
Coupe-vide  alone  to-night." 

But  Aldis  clenched  his  fists  and  muttered  something 
under  his  breath.  The  very  sight  of  Bibi  Coupe-vide 
was  an  offence  to  him.  He  had  watched  the  Apache 
in  his  dance  with  Zelie. 

"It  will  be  a  bad  job  for  the  hound  if  I  run  across 
him."  That  is  what  Aldis  was  saying.  "I  might 
be  tempted  to  wring  his  neck." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IT  was  not  till  Owen  had  danced  twice  with  Lavender 
— the  two  first  dances — that  he  was  able  to  tear  him- 
self away.  The  minutes  had  been  like  hours  to  him, 
and  even  unsuspicious  Lavender  had  wondered  at  her 
lover's  strange  mood.  He  was  alternately  silent  and 
talkative,  becoming  suddenly  conscious,  as  it  were,  that 
his  abstraction  might  be  noticed,  and  striving  to  make 
up  for  it  by  laughter  that  was  over-loud,  jokes  that 
were  obvious,  and  hilarity  of  manner  that  was  con- 
tradicted by  the  pallor  of  his  sallow  cheeks. 

Of  course,  Robin  knew  the  reason  of  this  strange 
behaviour,  and  did  his  utmost,  on  his  friend's  behalf, 
to  distract  attention  from  it.  But  Robin  was  a  poor 
actor  at  the  best  of  times. 

The  two  men  met  at  the  door  of  the  ballroom  when 
Owen  was  hurrying  out  in  search  of  Zelie.  He  had 
exchanged  a  brief  word  with  her  after  the  first  dance, 
and  she  had  promised  to  wait  for  him  in  the  vestibule. 
Of  course,  Lavender  had  questioned  him  innocently 
enough  as  to  his  acquaintance  with  the  French  dancing 
girl,  and  he  had  responded  with  some  explanation 
hastily  improvised.  He  had  met  Zelie  at  the  studio  of 
a  friend  of  his,  to  whom  she  had  sat  as  model. 

Owen  would  have  passed  Robin  without  a  word,  but 
the  latter  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  detained  him. 

"You're  going — to  her,  Owen?" 

Owen  nodded,  shaking  his  friend's  hand  from  his 
arm.  "Yes;  I  must  see  her.  It's  necessary." 

194 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  195 

"I  don't  see  why.  For  Heaven's  sake,  man,  can't 
you  remember  what  you  owe  to  the  girl  you've 
promised  to  marry  ?  Zelie  is  nothing  to  you  now.  It's 
the  most  infernal  mischance  that  she  should  be  here." 
He  spoke  with  growing  agitation.  "Come  back  to  the 
ballroom,  Owen,"  he  pleaded.  "Remember  Lavender." 

But  Owen  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  his  friend. 
"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't  prate  to  me!"  he  ex- 
claimed, roughly.  "I've  no  time  to  listen  to  you.  I'm 
getting  sick  of  your  eternal  sermonising,  Robin.  I'm 
not  a  child  to  be  dictated  to." 

He  shot  an  angry  glance  at  Robin,  and  was  gone. 
Robin  stood  there  in  the  doorway  and  clenched  his 
fists  tightly  as  he  watched  the  receding  figure  of  his 
friend. 

Meanwhile  Owen  had  found  Zelie.  She  was  in  the 
company  of  a  young  man  whom  he  recognised  as  Sir 
Donald  Ransom,  but  she  rose  at  once  when  Owen  ap- 
peared, evidently  very  much  to  the  disgust  of  her 
companion. 

"I  say,  you'll  give  me  another  waltz  later  on,  won't 
you  ?"  Owen  heard  him  whisper.  "It's  perfectly  divine 
to  dance  with  you.  It  seems  to  make  a  man  forget 
himself  utterly,  to  take  him  into  another  sphere." 

"It  is  Heaven?"  she  asked,  with  a  malicious  glance 
at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"I  vow  I  think  it's  the  other  place,"  he  responded; 
"but  there  are  times  when  one  is  very  near  the  other." 
The  young  man's  face  flushed  as  he  spoke;  then  he 
scribbled  his  name  upon  Zelie's  programme,  bowed, 
and  left  her  with  Owen.  She  slipped  her  hand  under 
the  arm  of  the  latter  and  drew  him  to  the  door. 

"We'll  go  out,  I  think,  mon  ami,"  she  said.  She 
spoke  the  familiar  phrase  with  an  intonation  which 
grated.  There  was  such  an  utter  carelessness  about 


196  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

it.  "There  is  much  that  we  have  to  say  to  each  other, 
and  I  know  of  a  quiet  spot.  We  will  talk  when  we 
get  there." 

She  smoothed  her  dress  and  pulled  up  her  long 
gloves,  which  had  become  a  little  wrinkled  at  the 
elbows.  There  was  a  great  gilded  mirror  close  to  the 
spot  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  she  regarded 
herself  in  it  with  complacency ;  to  Owen's  presence  she 
appeared  indifferent. 

Yet  this  was  Zelie,  his  wife.  It  was  barely  a  month 
since  they  had  been  all  in  all  to  each  other.  Four  short 
weeks — and  yet  he  felt  almost  as  if  the  whole  width  of 
the  world  divided  them.  And  it  was  only  to-night  that 
this  impression  had  taken  hold  of  him;  in  his  dreams 
she  had  always  been  near  him,  the  Zelie  to  whom  he 
had  given  himself  body  and  soul,  she  for  whom  he 
had  been  ready  to  sin — for  whom  he  had  sinned. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  her  coldness,  her  indiffer- 
ence? He  would  rather  have  seen  her  in  a  passion  of 
anger — he  understood  her  in  that  mood. 

They  passed  out  of  the  house  into  the  garden.  The 
sky  was  spangled  with  stars,  and  there  was  a  faint 
glow  on  the  horizon  indicating  the  rising  moon.  The 
paths,  between  beds  of  fragrant  flowers,  were  bright 
with  the  glitter  of  tiny  lamps.  The  sound  of  music 
fell  softly  upon  the  ear.  Owen  followed  where  Zelie 
led.  The  touch  of  her  hand  upon  his  arm  thrilled  him, 
and  as  he  walked  he  pressed  it  closely  against  his  side. 
She  offered  no  resistance  to  this,  but  her  voice  re- 
mained cold  and  impassive. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Zelie  was  telling  herself  that 
the  less  said  between  them  the  better.  She  wanted  no 
impassioned  scene — there  wasn't  the  smallest  need  for 
it — she  knew  all  she  wished  to  know.  Had  she  not, 
that  very  evening,  heard  Owen  congratulated  upon  his 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  197 

engagement  to  Miss  Percivale,  the  little  waxen-faced 
saint  ? 

She  was  leading  this  man  to  his  death,  and  it  was 
upon  that  that  her  thoughts  centred.  The  knowledge 
of  what  she  was  doing  thrilled  every  nerve  in  her  body 
and  sent  the  blood  coursing  quickly  through  her  veins. 
This  was  her  revenge,  and  she  was  revelling  in  it.  She 
was  leading  the  man  who  had  scorned  and  mocked 
her  to  his  death. 

She  knew  that  all  would  take  place  exactly  as  she 
had  planned  it.  She  had  seen  and  spoken  with  Bibi 
since  supper,  and  he  was  prepared.  He  would  carry 
out  her  instructions  to  the  letter.  He  would  be  there 
when  they  reached  the  summer-house,  crouching  hid- 
den among  the  bushes.  She  would  enter  first  and  then 
detain  Owen  in  the  doorway.  Bibi  would  creep  out, 
unheard,  unseen.  A  quick  blow — like — this — involun- 
tarily she  clenched  her  fingers  into  the  palms  of  her 
hands,  and  a  shudder  passed  through  her  frame — yes, 
a  blow  with  his  own  knife — and  it  would  all  be  over. 

Owen  felt  the  convulsive  movement  of  the  girl's 
body,  and  he  drew  her  closer  to  his  side.  "You're  not 
cold,  my  Zelie?"  he  asked,  little  suspecting  the  true 
cause  of  her  emotion.  "You  should  have  put  some- 
thing round  your  neck.  We're  still  in  spring,  you 
know,  though  the  nights  are  so  delightfully  warm. 
And  you  are  really  very  decolletee,  Zelie;  a  little  too 
much  so,  don't  you  think?" 

There  was  something  of  the  old  tone  of  command 
in  his  voice.  He  had  always  been  accustomed  to  dic- 
tate to  her  upon  the  subject  of  her  dres.  But  she 
resented  his  interference  now. 

"What  does  that  matter  to  you?"  she  said,  shortly. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  a  man  who  deserts  his  wife  and 


198  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

engages  himself  to  another  girl  cannot  have  much  to 
say  in  these  matters.  Is  it  not  so,  M.  mon  marif" 

Owen  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  They  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  illuminated  walk  by  now  and  were 
standing  on  the  verge  of  a  thicket,  a  miniature  wood 
intersected  by  several  paths;  in  the  centre  of  it  the 
summer-house  was  situated.  The  sound  of  music  could 
still  be  heard,  but  very  faintly  now.  They  were  prac- 
tically alone. 

"But,  Zelie" — a  puzzled  look  had  come  to  the  man's 
face.  "Why  do  you  say  this  to  me?  Why  do  you 
speak  so  cruelly  ?  Surely  you  know — you  understand  ?" 

"I  understand — yes."  She  drew  her  hand  from 
under  his  arm  and  stood  confronting  him.  Since  he 
demanded  it,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
know  what  she  thought  of  him.  Of  course,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  about  his  motives.  He  wished  to  marry 
his  flaxen-haired  doll  for  the  sake  of  her  money,  and  to 
remain  on  good  terms  with  herself,  Zelie,  all  the  same. 
His  passion  for  her  was  unabated.  That  was  what 
he  was  about  to  tell  her — he  was  going  to  throw  him- 
self upon  her  mercy.  Well,  she  would  allow  herself 
the  gratification  of  refusing  him  what  he  asked.  She 
would  speak  the  final  "no"  when  they  reached  the 
arbour — just  before  the  blow  was  struck. 

"I  understand  that  you  have  left  me  for  another?" 
she  said,  in  a  low,  purring  voice,  in  which  menance  was 
hidden. 

"Zelie,  you  are  wrong,"  he  cried.  "Surely,  surely, 
you  read  my  letter?" 

"Your  letter  ?"    She  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him. 

"The  letter  I  sent  you  by  Robin.  He  delivered  it 
faithfully?"  A  momentary  suspicion  shot  through  the 
man's  brain.  Had  Robin  deceived  him — intentionally? 

"Oh,    that    letter/'      She    shrugged    her    slanting 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  199 

shoulders.  "I  tore  it  up  unread.  I  guessed  that  you 
were  trying  to  excuse  yourself,  and  I  did  not  care  to 
read  your  excuses.  I  knew  enough." 

"Zelie,  my  God,  Zelie!"  He  seized  her  arm  and 
drew  her  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood,  choosing  the  first 
path  that  presented  itself.  Zelie  made  no  resistance — 
they  were  walking  in  the  right  direction. 

Owen  was  speaking  hurriedly,  evidently  labouring 
under  great  excitement.  He  talked  half  to  himself  and 
half  to  the  girl.  "Then  you  didn't  know — God  in 
Heaven,  if  I'd  only  realised  that !  You've  been  think- 
ing me  false  to  you — you've  been  hating  me  in  your 
heart.  I  see  that  now — how  you  must  have  hated. 
You  destroyed  my  picture,  and  I  deserved  that  blow 
from  you,  just  because  I  was  a  fool  and  hadn't  told  you 
the  truth  at  once.  Then  I  sent  the  letter  to  explain 
things,  and  I  thought  you  would  not  hate  me  any  more. 
I  was  contented  in  my  mind  about  you  and  only  look- 
ing forward  to  the  day  when  we  should  meet  again 
and  be  happy.  And  all  the  while — you  never  knew!" 

"What  is  there  to  know?"  she  asked.  They  had 
reached  a  spot  where  three  paths  met.  She  directed 
his  steps  into  the  one  that  led  to  the  arbour. 

The  man  pressed  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "No  wonder 
you  greeted  me  so  coldly,"  he  said;  "no  wonder  your 
eyes  were  fierce !  My  poor  Zelie — and  yet,  if  you  knew 
it,  I  have  been  working  all  these  weeks  for  you.  Yes, 
my  dear,  I  have  been  degrading  myself,  playing  a 
blackguard  game,  and  my  only  comfort  has  been  that 
it  is  for  you.  And,  all  the  while — you  hated  me." 

"How  do  you  mean — for  me?"  Zelie  slackened  her 
pace  a  little,  compelling  him  to  do  the  same.  They 
were  very  near  the  summer-house  by  now,  and  his 
speech  had  mystified  her.  She  wanted  to  understand. 

He  explained  the  plot  upon  which  he  had  been  en- 


200  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

gaged,  explained  it  breathlessly  and  with  many  pauses 
and  interjections. 

"You  see  it  was  for  your  sake,  Zelie.  I  was  a  triple 
fool  not  to  have  told  you  before  I  left  Paris,  but  I 
feared  that  you  might  be  jealous  and  prevent  me  going. 
I  vowed  myself  to  perdition  when  I  learned  that  you 
had  found  out  and  revenged  yourself  upon  me  by  cut- 
ting up  my  picture.  But  I  forgave  you — for  I  know 
your  nature,  my  dear.  And  now,  Zelie,  you  see  every- 
thing has  happened  just  as  I  planned.  I  am  engaged 
to  Lavender  Percivale,  and  to-morrow  my  aunt  will 
make  a  new  will  leaving  me  heir  to  the  best  part  of  her 
estate.  She  can't  live  more  than  another  week  or  two 
— it  may  only  be  a  matter  of  days — the  doctor  has  said 
so.  She  is  so  ill  that  she  is  not  likely  to  suggest  an 
immediate  marriage  between  Lavender  and  myself, 
which  I  was  afraid  she  might  do.  She  is  quite  content, 
knowing  us  engaged.  She  will  die,  and  then,  of  course, 
I  shall  break  off  the  engagement.  But  the  money  will 
be  mine  and  no  one  can  take  it  from  me.  Then,  Zelie, 
we  can  begin  a  new  life  together,  you  and  I,  and  I  shall 
not  care  what  the  world  says  of  me,  for  I  shall  have 
you,  and  you  are  my  world.  We'll  go  away  together — 
to  some  other  country — and  forget  that  we  were  ever 
parted,  for,  oh!" — he  was  standing  still  now,  immedi- 
ately facing  the  girl.  He  laid  his  hands  upon  her 
shoulders,  his  fingers  biting  into  the  white  flesh  of  her 
neck — "for,  oh,  I  want  you  so,  Zelie !  I  have  suffered 
without  you.  If  you  should  refuse  yourself  to  me  I'd 
rather  die  at  your  feet  than  go  on  living.  Zelie,  my 
wife,  say  that  you  understand  and  forgive." 

This  was  an  unexpected  development,  and  even 
Zelie's  quick  brain  was  unable,  for  the  moment,  to  cope 
with  it.  She  realised  that  there  had  been  a  mistake 
upon  her  part,  and  that,  however  much  Owen  Mayne 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  201 

might  have  transgressed  against  others,  he  had  sinned 
in  order  to  provide  himself  and  her  with  the  money 
of  which  they  stood  so  badly  in  need. 

Zelie  bit  her  lip  in  annoyance  and  indecision.  She  had 
nursed  her  wrath  against  this  man  till  it  had  become 
almost  dear  to  her.  Besides}  he  had  no  longer  any 
place  in  her  schemes  for  the  future.  She  wished  to  be 
independent — and  yet,  was  Owen  to  die  for  that? 

She  had  devoted  him  to  death  for  an  offence  of 
which  he  was  innocent.  It  is  reasonable  to  kill  one  who 
has  hurt  you — but  not  when  there  is  no  injury  to  be 
avenged.  Such  was  the  primitive  idea  of  justice  rooted 
somewhere  in  the  girl's  brain.  She  recognised  no  law, 
human  or  Divine.  This  was  no  more  than  instinct, 
an  instinct  shared  with  the  lower  orders  of  creation. 

And  then  this  man  had  possessed  her  entirely — he 
was  her  husband.  She  had  cared  for  him,  too,  in  a 
wild,  passionate  fashion;  it  was  not  love,  for  that  was 
an  emotion  to  which  she  was  an  utter  stranger.  She 
had  never  loved  any  but  herself. 

Yet  she  had  been  about  to  lead  him  to  his  death! 
The  murderer  was  lurking  there  even  now,  somewhere 
close  at  hand  among  the  bushes. 

Well,  Owen  must  not  die  since  he  had  not  merited 
death.  Zelie's  reflections  could  not  extend  beyond  that. 
This  was  no  time  for  looking  into  the  future.  For  the 
moment  she  knew  only  this — Owen  Mayne  must  not 
die. 

He  was  drawing  her  nearer  to  him,  nearer.  In 
another  moment  her  head  would  be  against  his  breast. 
She  resisted  a  little. 

"Owen,  you  swear  to  me  that  this  is  true?" 

"I  swear  it — every  word." 

She  was  still  resisting  him,  but  he  was  the  stronger. 
His  arms  had  dropped  from  her  shoulders  now;  they 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

were  grasping  her  waist,  enfolding  her  in  a  passionate 
embrace.  Owen  was  regaining  the  mastery.  It  was 
his  strength  which  she  had  always  admired  in  him,  his 
determination.  She  yielded  now — because  he  was 
strong. 

Their  lips  met,  and  to  Owen  it  was  as  if  he  were 
absorbing  new  life  into  his  veins.  He  felt  as  a  thirsty 
man  may  feel,  one  who  is  parched  and  dying  of  thirst, 
when  a  cup  of  water  is  lifted  to  his  mouth.  What  were 
the  kisses  of  such  a  one  as  Lavender  Percivale  to  this  ? 
For  herein  was  life,  the  wild,  fierce  life  of  the  flesh,  and 
what  did  it  matter  if  sin,  degradation — death — lay  be- 
hind that  kiss,  so  long  as  it  was  given  and  received  ? 

The  glint  of  something  white  among  the  bushes — 
he  could  not  say  what  it  was,  and  it  did  not  matter — 
caught  his  eyes  at  that  moment.  A  recollection  of  the 
statue  in  the  grounds  at  Selwood  shot  into  his  brain, 
but  he  dismissed  the  thought  almost  as  soon  as  formed. 
Only  a  fool  allows  conscience  to  hurt  him. 

"Come,  Zelie,"  he  said  recklessly,  holding  her  tightly 
to  him.  "The  devil  first  brought  us  together,  my  dear, 
and  the  devil  will  look  after  his  own.  I  don't  mean  to 
let  you  go  now  we  understand  each  other.  There's 
some  sort  of  an  arbour  close  by  here,  I  believe " 

The  arbour — and  Bibi !  Zelie  broke  into  a  nervous 
laugh  at  the  unconscious  irony  of  the  suggestion.  Then 
quickly  she  disengaged  herself  from  his  grasp.  How 
was  she  to  rid  herself — for  the  present — of  this  man, 
her  husband,  and  let  him  go  safely — the  man  whom, 
not  ten  minutes  ago,  she  had  pictured  dead  at  her  feet  ? 

Her  brain  worked  rapidly.  She  affected  compliance. 
"Bien"  she  said,  "let  it  be  so.  We  have  still  much  to 
discuss  together — about  the  future.  But,  first,  Owen, 
I  shall  be  pleased  if  you  will  go  to  the  house  and  fetch 
me  a  wrap  for  my  shoulders."  She  shivered  artistic- 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  203 

ally.  "I  feel  the  night  air.  I  left  a  fichu  with  Mrs. 
Richards.  You  will  find  her  easily.  Go  quick,  and 
come  back.  I  will  wait  for  you  here." 

There  was  a  rustic  seat  close  at  hand.  Zelie  dropped 
down  upon  it.  "I  dare  not  go  myself,"  she  added.  "I 
have  partners  who  would  claim  me.  I  shall  be  com- 
fortable here — and  you  will  not  be  long." 

Owen  hesitated,  not  liking  to  leave  her  alone — im- 
patient, too,  of  every  minute.  But  she  pleaded  again 
that  she  was  cold,  and  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  do  as  she  wished. 

"You  won't  move  from  where  you  are  ?"  he  insisted. 

She  promised,  and  he  turned  reluctant  footsteps 
away.  Zelie  watched  him,  half  unconsciously  admiring 
his  tall,  well-knit  figure,  till  he  had  disappeared  round 
a  bend  of  the  path,  then  she  rose  hurriedly  and  took  her 
way  to  the  arbour. 

There  was  Bibi  to  be  settled  with,  and  what  was  she 
to  tell  Bibi? 

She  had  not  far  to  go,  but  there  was  a  moment 
when  she  paused  and  looked  about  her  nervously. 
The  moon  was  above  the  horizon  now,  and  its  light, 
filtering  through  the  trees,  was  pale  and  mysterious. 
She  fancied  she  heard  the  sound  of  low  sobbing,  and  of 
quick  footsteps  somewhere  close  at  hand. 

There  were  many  paths  through  the  thicket,  and 
the  trees  were  dense.  Zelie  strained  her  eyes  to  see 
between  them,  but  could  distinguish  nothing.  And 
presently  there  was  the  snapping  of  a  twig,  then  all 
was  silent  once  more.  She  told  herself  that  she  was 
nervous,  and  had  imagined  both  the  sobs  and  the 
footsteps. 

She  hurried  on  to  the  arbour.  It  was  a  small  cir- 
cular erection,  with  a  wide  door  and  a  bench  running 


204  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

round  the  interior.  There  was  no  sign  of  Bibi.  No 
doubt  he  was  hidden  among  the  bushes. 

She  was  just  about  to  call  gently  when,  with  startling 
suddenness,  she  was  confronted  by  the  figure  of  a  man. 
He  had  emerged  from  the  arbour,  and  in  the  pale  moon- 
light he  appeared  white,  dishevelled,  and  terrifying. 

"Zelie,  by  all  that's  holy."  He  stretched  out  his 
hands  and  seized  her  wrists.  She  recognised  him  then 
with  a  little  scream.  It  was  Stephen  Aldis. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

STEPHEN  ALDIS  and  Cecily  had  patched  up  a  sort  of 
reconciliation  before  the  performance  that  evening.  It 
was  as  a  consequence  of  this,  and  in  order  to  prove 
his  good  intentions  towards  her,  that  Aldis  had  ar- 
ranged that  they  should  appear  together  in  the  duet 
from  The  Golden  East.  He  had,  however,  been  in- 
tensely annoyed  at  her  semi-breakdown,  while  his 
temper  was  not  improved  by  the  other  matter — that 
of  the  lost  letters — which  was  weighing  upon  his  mind. 

He  had  taken  Zelie  in  to  supper,  and  in  order  to  keep 
up  his  spirits  he  had  drunk  freely  of  champagne — 
drunk  more  than  was  his  wont — and  the  consequence 
was  that  he  had  risen  from  the  table  not  intoxicated, 
but  in  a  condition  that  made  him  hardly  responsible  for 
what  he  did  or  said. 

He  was  an  abstemious  man  as  a  rule,  and  without 
realising  the  cause  of  his  peculiar  frame  of  mind  he 
wondered  stupidly  at  it.  He  imagined  that  it  was  Zelie 
who  had  got  into  his  blood,  that  it  was  by  her  he  was 
intoxicated,  and  he  laughed,  seeing  everything  for  the 
moment  in  rosy  hue. 

Zelie  laughed  also,  but  she  laughed  at  rather  than 
with  the  man.  It  was  she  who  had  encouraged  him 
to  drink.  The  supper  was  a  merry  one,  and  it  re- 
minded her  pleasantly  of  the  old  Paris  days.  She  had 
let  herself  go,  and  it  seemed  only  natural  that  others 
should  do  the  same. 

205 


206  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Aldis  danced  the  first  dance  with  Zelie,  and  his 
exaltation  of  spirits  increased.  She  found  it  difficult 
to  keep  him  within  bounds.  She  had  to  tell  him  in 
the  end,  jokingly,  that  she  would  not  dance  with  him 
again  unless  he  behaved  himself  more  becomingly. 

This  brought  about  a  change  in  his  mood.  He  drank 
again  at  one  of  the  refreshment  buffets,  remembered 
his  troubles,  and  then,  instead  of  rosy,  everything  ap- 
peared black  before  his  eyes. 

It  was  then,  as  he  made  his  hesitating  way  back  to 
the  drawing-room,  that  his  attention  was  claimed  by 
Cecily.  She  had  been  on  the  look-out  for  him,  and  the 
dance  which  he  had  promised  her  was  already  half 
finished.  He  had  quite  forgotten  all  about  it. 

"Don't  let's  dance,  Steve,"  she  murmured,  as  she 
took  his  arm.  "I'm  tired.  Let's  go  out  into  the 
gardens." 

He  thought  that  fresh  air  would  do  him  good,  and 
readily  consented.  But  he  would  rather  have  had  any 
companion  than  Cecily  just  then.  If  she  were  going 
to  whine  to  him  once  more — well,  he  didn't  mean  to 
stand  it.  So  he  told  himself  under  his  breath.  He 
had  had  enough  of  her  ridiculous  behaviour.  And 
why  had  she  made  such  a  fool  of  herself  upon  the 
stage? — she  had  made  a  fool  of  him,  too. 

Unfortunately  the  quality  of  which  Cecily  stood  most 
in  need  was  tact,  and  it  was  in  tact  that  she  was  pecu- 
liarly deficient.  Her  thoughts  were  too  self-centred 
to  allow  her  to  recognise  the  irresponsible  condition  of 
the  man.  She  had  been  torturing  herself  both  because 
she  had  failed  to  do  justice  to  the  duet  and  because, 
in  her  jealousy,  she  had  been  watching  Aldis  almost 
ever  since  the  curtain  fell.  He  seemed  to  have  studi- 
ously neglected  her,  while  his  attentions  to  Zelie  had 
been  so  marked  that  others  had  noticed  them  besides 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  207 

herself.  She  had  heard  laughing  whispers,  sniggering 
comments,  and  these  had  cut  her  to  the  heart. 

She  had  not  meant  to  reproach  him,  she  had  told 
herself  that  she  would  be  gentle  and  ingratiating,  and 
that  the  very  force  of  her  beauty  should  win  him  back 
to  her.  For  was  she  not  more  beautiful  by  far — as 
she  understood  beauty — than  the  strange  feline  creature 
who  had  set  a  spell  upon  her  lover  ?  She  utterly  failed 
to  see  wherein  Zelie's  fascination  lay. 

And  so  at  first  there  was  nothing  in  her  manner  to 
which  even  Aldis  could  take  exception.  She  was 
humbly  repentant  for  her  mishap  upon  the  stage ;  she 
was  not  feeling  herself,  she  had  a  splitting  headache, 
she  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint.  Was  he 
not  a  little  sorry  for  her  ? 

He  said  that  he  was  sorry.  He  was  ready  to  accept 
her  excuses.  It  really  didn't  matter  at  all  to  him  at 
that  moment  that  Cecily  had  failed  in  her  part.  It 
was  the  picture  of  Zelie  that  absorbed  him,  Zelie  as  she 
had  appeared  in  those  wonderful  dances  of  hers,  the 
woman,  primitive,  passionate,  and  all-conquering. 

He  answered  more  or  less  at  random,  and  sometimes 
foolishly,  but,  since  he  did  not  appear  angry  with  her, 
hope  began  to  revive  in  Cecily's  breast,  and,  her  whole 
attention  centred  upon  herself,  she  failed  to  recognise 
that  her  lover  had  been  drinking  too  freely — even 
though  he  stumbled  once  or  twice  without  any  apparent 
cause. 

Fate  willed  it  that  she  should  lead  him  to  the  arbour 
in  the  wood,  eager  to  have  him  to  herself — quite  to 
herself — for  a  little  while.  And  he  accompanied  her 
with  drunken  docility,  only  knowing  that  the  night  air 
was  cooling  to  his  brow  and  that  it  would  be  fully 
half  an  hour  before  he  might  venture  to  thrust  himself 
upon  Zelie  once  more. 


208  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

It  was  in  the  arbour  that  the  trouble  broke  forth 
anew.  Not  all  at  once,  because  Cecily  had  begun  by 
being  very  sweet  and  tender,  knowing,  perhaps,  that 
Stephen  Aldis  was  more  amenable  to  a  kiss  than  to 
any  amount  of  reasoning.  She  wreathed  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  rested  her  fair  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  lifted  her  lips  to  his. 

He  responded  readily  enough,  though  he  closed  his 
eyes  as  his  lips  met  hers.  It  was  of  Zelie  he  was  think- 
ing all  the  time,  though  she  could  not  guess  it. 

She  imagined  that  she  had  triumphed,  that  she  had 
won  him  back.  The  soft,  sweet  perfume  of  the  wood, 
of  the  garden,  and  of  the  spring  night  enthralled  her. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  with  a  deep,  throbbing  sigh,  "you 
love  me,  Steve,  you  do  love  me.  It's  all  been  a  horrible 
dream,  and  I  want  to  forget  it.  Kiss  me  again,  my  dear 
one,  and  tell  me  that  it  is  I  whom  you  love  and  not 
that  evil  creature,  that  vampire  woman,  Zelie " 

He  opened  his  eyes.  The  spell  had  passed  away.  He 
gazed  down  at  her  stupidly  with  the  dull  comprehension 
of  his  semi-intoxication. 

"What's  that  you  were  saying — about  Zelie?" 

"Oh,  Steve,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  that  you've  done 
with  her  for  ever." 

He  broke  into  a  rough  laugh,  thrusting  her  from 
him.  "Done  with  Zelie  ?  What  an  absurd  idea !  Done 
with  her  ?  My  God,  no !  Why,  she  absorbs  me.  Zelie 
is  a  creature  of  fire  and  flame.  I  tell  you  that  it  takes 
a  kiss  from  her  lips  to  make  a  man  realise  that  he  is 
alive.  You  are  all  very  well,  Cecily,  and  I'm  very 
fond  of  you" — his  voice  was  almost  maudlin — "but 

Zelie "  he  lifted  his  hands  to  his  lips  and  kissed 

them — "ah,  for  an  hour  with  Zelie,  I'd  sacrifice  the 
love  of  any  other  woman  under  the  sun !" 

His  words  fell  upon  the  girl  like  a  heavy  blow.    She 


209 

drew  away  from  him,  long  shudders  convulsing  her 
whole  frame,  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  the 
tears  welled  from  between  her  fingers. 

"Oh,  God,  have  pity  upon  me,"  she  moaned,  "for 
the  man  I  love  has  none." 

Aldis  gazed  at  her  stupidly  and  then  attempted  to 
convince  her  of  the  folly  of  her  behaviour.  But  he 
found  he  could  not  articulate  his  words  distinctly ;  they 
seemed  to  slip  into  each  other  somehow,  and  he  could 
not  say  what  he  meant. 

"Why  don't  you  answer  me?"  he  exclaimed  at  last, 
irritation  getting  the  better  of  him.  He  had  said 
nothing  to  which  she  could  reply,  but  he  was  not  aware 
of  the  fact. 

Her  face  was  still  buried  in  her  hands,  she  could  not 
speak.  She  sat  there  craning  her  head  forward,  and 
the  trembling  of  her  shoulders  maddened  him. 

He  raised  his  voice  almost  to  a  shout. 

"Once  and  for  all,  Cecily,  will  you  cease  worrying 
me  about  Zelie?" 

Still  she  made  him  no  reply.  He  was  standing  be- 
fore her  now,  and  he  seized  her  arms  roughly,  tearing 
her  hands  from  before  her  face.  The  sight  of  the  tears 
streaking  her  cheeks  only  served  to  heighten  his  wrath. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  He  lurched  a  step  for- 
ward and  shook  her  savagely,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
did,  only  incensed  against  this  white-faced  thing  who 
could  shed  tears  but  could  not  talk. 

He  released  her  at  last,  dimly  conscious  of  having 
performed  an  act  which  in  his  sober  senses  he  would 
have  scorned.  Cecily  lay  back  upon  the  low  wooden 
seat  for  a  moment  or  two,  gasping ;  then  suddenly  she 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  panted.    "I  hate  you !" 

He  stood  aside.    "All  right,  go,"  he  grumbled,  "and 


210  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

I'm  glad  to  be  rid  of  you.  You're  one  of  those  women 
who  can  make  a  man's  life  a  hell  to  him.  It's  all  over 
between  us,  understand  that — it's  all  over." 

"I  hate  you — I  hate  you !"  she  repeated,  pressing  her 
hands  to  her  swelling  bosom.  Her  eyes  were  wild. 
The  iron  had  bitten  deeply  into  her  soul.  She  swept 
out  of  the  summer-house  and  was  gone. 

Aldis  followed  her  to  the  door.  He  had  only  a  dim 
perception  of  what  had  actually  happened,  of  what 
he  had  said.  Cecily  had  been  playing  the  fool  again 
and  had  irritated  him.  A  curse  upon  these  tearful 
women  and  their  incomprehensible  ways ! 

The  pale  moon,  only  recently  risen,  shone  down  upon 
the  footpath,  throwing  long  shadows  across  it.  Cecily 
had  disappeared,  and  this  struck  him  as  curious,  for 
he  could  see  down  the  path  for  a  considerable  distance 
in  either  direction.  But,  no  doubt,  there  was  some 
other  way,  hidden  among  the  trees,  which  he  could  not 
see,  or  perhaps  she  had  contrived  a  short  cut  for  her- 
self through  the  bushes.  It  was  silly  of  her  if  she  had 
done  that,  for  she  would  spoil  her  gown,  and  it  was  a 
pretty  gown,  too. 

Should  he  go  after  her?  He  was  considering  the 
question,  balancing  the  weight  of  his  body  upon  each 
foot  alternately,  when  he  perceived  a  figure  approach- 
ing from  the  other  direction  to  that  which  Cecily  had 
taken. 

Could  ,she  be  coming  back  ?  She  might  have  made 
some  sort  of  a  circuit  and  was  now  returning  to  say 
that  she  was  sorry  for  having  been  foolish.  Well,  he 
supposed  he  would  have  to  make  friends  again. 

He  drew  back  a  little  into  the  arbour.  He  was  not 
going  to  allow  Cecily  to  see  that  he  had  felt  anxious  on 
her  behalf,  so  he  told  himself  with  foolish,  half-drunken 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

cunning.  The  footsteps  were  drawing  nearer — ah! 
they  were  now  at  the  very  door. 

He  stepped  forward,  and  then  he  realised  his  error. 

"Zelie,  by  all  that's  holy !"  He  broke  into  a  laugh, 
and,  stretching  out  his  hands,  seized  the  French  girl 
by  the  wrists. 

Zelie — for  it  was  at  this  moment  that  she  had 
reached  the  arbour  after  leaving  Owen — gave  a  low 
cry,  for  she  realised  at  once  that  the  man  was  not 
master  of  himself.  And  what  was  he  doing  here  in  the 
summer-house  alone? 

"What  a  glorious  piece  of  luck!"  chuckled  Aldis. 
"Why,  the  gods  themselves  must  have  sent  you,  Zelie. 
To  think  of  it,  that  we  should  meet  here  and  without 
a  soul  to  interfere  with  us!" 

His  eyes  were  devouring  her  greedily.  He  was  step- 
ping backwards  into  the  arbour,  drawing  her  after  him. 
His  grip  upon  her  wrists  was  so  tight  that  it  pained 
her.  She  was  afraid  of  him. 

"No,"  she  cried.  "It  was  all  a  mistake.  I  came 
here  to  meet  someone — not  you,  M.  Aldis.  Let  me 
go,  let  me  go,  I  say." 

She  stamped  her  foot,  but  he  would  not  let  her  go. 
He  kept  laughing  in  a  foolish  sort  of  manner,  and  he 
did  not  appear  to  understand  what  she  said.  He  had 
passed  one  arm  about  her  body  now  and  was  drawing 
her  to  him. 

"I  love  you,  Zelie.  You  black  witch,  you  en- 
chantress! You've  possessed  me  body  and  soul,  and 
you're  going  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me,  too.  You're 
not  going  to  keep  me  in  suspense  any  longer.  For  this 
is  our  hour,  Zelie,  yours  and  mine.  You've  come  to  me 
out  of  the  night — it  was  fate  directed  your  steps." 

He  continued  to  pour  out  hot,  burning  words,  words 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

that  were  Hardly  intelligible.  He  was  holding  her  close 
to  his  breast  now,  and  his  lips  were  close  to  hers.  Zelie 
was  terrified.  She  feared  this  man  who  had  sprung, 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  darkness  and  seized  her,  this  man 
who  was  too  intoxicated  to  know  what  he  did — she 
was  afraid  as  she  had  never  been  afraid  before. 

Luckily  he  released  his  hold  of  her  for  a  moment. 
He  had  stumbled  and  been  compelled  to  throw  out  one 
of  his  hands  against  the  woodwork  of  the  arbour  to 
support  himself.  Zelie  seized  that  moment,  and  before 
Aldis  knew  what  she  was  about  she  had  fled  from  the 
arbour,  leaving  him  once  more  alone. 

She  ran  down  the  path,  imagining  in  her  terror  that 
Aldis  was  pursuing  her.  It  was  not  till  she  was  clear 
of  the  wood  that  she  remembered  Bibi,  who  must  be 
lurking  there  among  the  bushes,  wondering  what  had 
happened.  But  she  could  not  worry  about  Bibi  now. 
He  must  find  out  for  himself  that  there  was  no  need 
to  use  his  knife  against  anyone.  There  was  Owen, 
too;  but  she  would  invent  some  excuse  for  him — he 
was  bound  to  return  to  the  house  in  search  of  her. 

And  so  Zelie  made  her  way  back  to  the  ballroom, 
and  was  soon  claimed  by  one  of  her  partners,  who  had 
been  vainly  seeking  for  her.  By  that  time  she  had 
quite  recovered  her  self-possession. 

A  little  later  Donald  Ransom  and  Lady  Beatrice, 
who  had  been  wandering  in  the  grounds,  turned  by 
chance  into  the  narrow  footpath  that  led  to  the  summer- 
house.  Donald  had  recollected  its  existence,  and  had 
told  himself  that  it  would  be  delightful  to  spend  a  few 
minutes  there  with  his  sweetheart. 

They  had  been  walking  decorously  in  the  illuminated 
gardens,  but  now,  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  the 
young  man  slipped  his  arm  about  the  girl's  waist  and 
whispered  tender  words  in  her  ear. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  213 

They  trod  upon  the  soft  sward  by  the  side  of  the 
path,  and  so  their  footsteps  made  but  little  sound.  The 
glory  and  the  wonder  of  their  love  was  upon  them, 
and  the  things  of  earth  seemed  very  far  away. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Sir  Donald  when  at  last  the 
summer-house  appeared  in  sight.  "Come  along,  Bee; 
I'm  not  going  to  take  you  back  to  the  house  for  an- 
other quarter  of  an  hour  at  least." 

"But  I'm  engaged  to  dance  with  Charlie  Lake,"  she 
protested,  smiling. 

"Oh,  bother  Charlie  Lake,"  he  responded.  "He  must 
get  another  partner." 

"Well,  I  consent,"  she  replied,  "on  condition  that 
you  don't  dance  again  with  that  horrible  Zelie.  I  saw 
you  flirting  with  her,  sir,  and  I  don't  like  it." 

He  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek  and  led  her  towards 
the  door  of  the  summer-house,  and  then,  as  they  were 
about  to  enter,  Lady  Beatrice  suddenly  gave  utterance 
to  a  sharp  scream,  while  Donald  started  and  clasped 
his  arm  tighter  about  the  girl  as  if  to  protect  her. 

For  a  white,  ghastly  face  confronted  them  in  the 
doorway,  a  face  that  seemed  hardly  human  in  its  utter 
malignity — a  frightened  face,  too — that  of  a  hunted 
creature. 

Donald  recognised  it,  recognised,  too,  the  stunted, 
ill-shaped  figure.  "Don't  be  frightened,  Bee,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "it's  only  that  beast  of  an  Apache.  What 
are  you  doing  here?"  He  addressed  Bibi  sternly. 

Bibi  made  a  sudden  dart  forward,  bending  his  head 
low — an  effort  to  escape.  But  Donald  caught  him  by 
the  collar  and  held  him  firmly. 

Then  Beatrice,  who,  trembling  and  startled,  had  been 
leaning  against  the  door  of  the  arbour,  screamed  again. 

"Donald,  Donald,  look!"     She  pointed  a  terrified 


214.  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

finger  at  a  dark  figure  that  lay  there  prone  upon  the 
floor,  a  figure  strangely  and  horribly  contorted.  "It's 
murder,  Donald,"  she  screamed. 

And  Donald,  still  gripping  Bibi,  the  Apache,  tightly 
by  the  collar,  looked  and  saw. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

OWEN,  failing  to  find  Zelie  at  the  spot  where  he  had 
left  her,  remained  for  a  few  minutes,  muttering  to 
himself  and  walking  with  short,  quick  steps  up  and 
down  the  gravel  path,  then  he  realised  that  it  was  no 
use  waiting  any  longer,  and  returned  to  the  house. 

He  went  circumspectly,  for  he  was  terribly  afraid 
lest  he  should  meet  Lavender  or  Robin,  who  might 
claim  his  company  and  prevent  him  from  having  his 
talk  out  with  Zelie.  And  he  could  not  leave  Chamney 
Castle  that  night  without  a  complete  understanding — 
it  was  impossible. 

He  found  the  dancer,  at  last,  sitting  among  palms 
and  flowers  in  the  conservatory,  and  surrounded  by 
a  small  bevy  of  admirers  of  both  sexes.  There  was  a 
great  red-shaded  lamp  just  behind  Zelie's  chair,  and  it 
cast  its  glow  upon  her  white  cheeks,  and  lent  a  bizarre 
shade  of  colour  to  the  blackness  of  her  gown. 

She  saw  him,  and  she  made  a  little  gesture  with  her 
hand  that  was  half  apologetic  and  which  indicated 
that,  for  one  moment,  she  was  not  free  to  go  to  him. 
Owen  noticed  then  that  the  tall,  handsome  woman 
sitting  next  to  Zelie  was  none  other  than  the  Duchess 
of  Shiplake  herself. 

He  moved  away  and  found  a  seat  in  another  nook 
of  the  conservatory.  It  was  only  separated  from  Zelie 
and  her  party  by  a  screen  of  foliage.  Soon  a  man 
whom  he  knew  casually  strolled  by  with  a  pretty  girl 
upon  his  arm,  evidently  on  the  look-out  for  a  secluded 

215 


216  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

corner.  He  cast  envious  eyes  at  the  empty  chair  be- 
side the  one  occupied  by  Owen — here  was  an  ideal 
spot  for  two — under  the  leafy  palms. 

"Aren't  you  dancing,  Mayne?"  he  cried.  "I  didn't 
think  you  were  the  sort  of  man  to  be  sitting  out  alone. 
Rippin'  waltz  this  they're  playing !" 

The  faint  sound  of  dance  music  fell  upon  Owen's 
ears  from  the  distant  ballroom.  It  was  a  popular 
melody,  with  a  banal,  haunting  refrain.  He  had  danced 
to  it  a  score  of  times. 

Owen  refused  to  take  the  hint,  and  after  a  few 
more  trivial  observations,  the  man  and  his  partner 
drifted  away.  Almost  immediately  afterwards  the 
duchess  rose  with  a  sweep  of  her  skirt,  and,  of  course, 
the  rest  of  the  company  followed  suit.  The  little  party 
was  about  to  break  up. 

Owen  was  at  Zelie's  side  immediately.  She  was 
gazing  at  the  retreating  figure  of  the  duchess,  a  sneer 
upon  her  lips.  And,  as  the  latter  disappeared,  she  did 
exactly  what  Lord  Martyn  had  foretold  she  would  do—- 
she put  her  tongue  out  with  a  gesture  of  derision. 

"Ah,  but  they  are  funny,  these  good  English  people," 
she  exclaimed.  "They  talk  about  art  and  elevating 
the  public  taste,  but  why  do  they  applaud  me,  why 
will  they  come  and  see  me,  why?"  She  clapped  her 
hands  together  and  laughed.  I  have  no  art,  I  am  as 
I  am,  Zelie  of  Montmarte.  But  I  show  them  what 
is  in  their  own  hearts.  If  they  spoke  the  truth  they 
would  say  that  my  dancing  shocks  them  and  that  they 
like  to  be  shocked.  But  you  English,  you  will  not 
admit  that  you  like  to  be  shocked.  You  speak  of  art, 
and  then  it  is  all  right — you  have  your  excuse — is  it 
not  so?" 

"Art  or  no  art,  Zelie,  you  are  wonderful,"  said  the 
man.  "I  wish  to  Heaven  you  were  not,  for  then  I 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

shouldn't  feel  that  I  was  sharing  you  with  the  world. 
Oh,  I  hate  this  appearing  on  a  public  stage — must  you 
go  on  with  it,  Zelie?  Must  you?" 

He  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  to  the  two  chairs 
under  the  palms.  "Now  I've  got  you,"  he  went  on, 
breathing  hard,  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  until  we've 
settled  about  the  future,  Zelie,  my  wife." 

"Yes,  we  will  talk,"  she  said.  "It  is  best  that  we 
should  understand  each  other.  And  I  am  sorry,  O-en" 
— he  delighted  in  that  pronunciation  of  his  name — 
"that  I  could  not  wait  for  you  in  the  garden." 

"Why  did  you  go  away?"  he  asked. 

She  spread  out  her  hands — it  was  quke  easy  to  in- 
vent an  excuse,  anything  would  do.  "Ah,  I  could  not 
help  myself,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  wish  to  go  away, 
but  there  came  a  gentleman — I  have  forgotten  his 
name" — she  shrugged  her  narrow  shoulders — "and  he 
told  me  that  the  duchess,  she  whom  you  see  me  with 
just  now,  wished  to  speak  with  me,  and  that  it  was 
most  important,  ah,  but  most  important  for  my  future. 
So  what  could  I  do  but  go?  I  knew  that  you  would 
find  me  again  before  you  leave,  mon  O-en." 

His  hand  held  hers.  The  air  was  soft  with  the  per- 
fume of  flowers,  and  the  music  fell  faintly  upon  their 
ears,  a  waltz  to  a  fierce  gipsy  refrain. 

She  tapped  her  feet  upon  the  floor.  It  was  as  if  she 
longed  to  dance. 

"You  are  dancing  your  way  over  the  hearts  of  men, 
Zelie,"  he  said,  noticing  the  action.  "Can  you  not  be 
content  with  one  heart — mine?  Do  you  still  love  me, 
Zelie?" 

"Why,  of  course,  mon  ami,"  she  answered,  but  there 
was  no  warmth,  no  passion  in  her  tone.  Nevertheless, 
she  stroked  his  cheek  with  her  soft  fingers,  and  he 


218  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

thrilled  at  the  touch  of  them.    "Do  we  not  understand 
each  other  now?"  she  murmured. 

"You  will  wait  for  me,  Zelie,"  he  said  hoarsely, 
"until  I  have  this  fortune  in  my  possession,  this  fortune 
that  must  be  mine  at  no  distant  date,  and  for  which  I 
have  sacrificed  my  honour?  But  that  doesn't  matter, 
for  I'd  have  sacrificed  my  very  soul,  consigned  it  to 
hell,  if  it  were  to  give  you  something  you  crave  for. 
And  you  craved  for  money,  Zelie.  Well,  I  shall  be 
rich,  though  for  a  little  while  longer  I  must  still  pre- 
tend to  be  the  affianced  husband  of  another  woman. 
But,  later  on — ah,  the  whole  world  shall  know  that  you 
are  my  wife." 

"Let  us  wait  till  that  hour  before  we  decide  on  the 
future?"  said  Zelie,  always  ready  to  postpone  in  her 
mind  that  she  would  not  abandon  her  stage  career,  that 
she  would  not  give  up  one  iota  of  her  success,  for  the 
sake  of  this  man  whom,  only  a  few  hours  ago,  she  had 
figured  as  lying  dead,  murdered,  at  her  feet.  She  had 
spared  his  life,  but  he  should  not  stand  in  her  way. 
That  was  a  matter,  however,  which  could  be  settled 
later ;  for  the  present  all  was  well,  and,  from  the  very 
circumstances  of  his  position,  he  could  not  interfere 
with  her. 

So  she  leant  back  lazily  in  her  chair,  reaching  out 
one  hand  and  drawing  down  a  great  palm  leaf  so  that 
it  half-concealed  her  face.  "We  will  talk  of  that  later 
on,  Owen,"  she  said,  "when  the  fortune  is  yours.  Do 
not  be  afraid  that  I  shall  run  away  from  you.  But, 
for  the  present,  you  will  not  grudge  me  my  success. 
You  will  be  pleased  that  I  am  so  clever — I,  Zelie,  who 
not  so  very  long  ago  was  ready  to  beg  my  bread  in  the 
gutter — that  I  am  so  clever  as  to  win  the  applause  of 
all  these  great  people — Milor  Martyn,  who  invites  me 
to  stay  at  his  castle,  and  Madame  la  Duchesse,  who 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  219 

condescends  to  shake  me  by  the  hand,  and  who  does 
not  guess  that  I  laugh  at  her  in  my  heart.  Are  you 
not  pleased,  O-en,  that  I  am  so  clever  as  this?" 

Her  red  lips  were  parted;  they  smiled  tantalisingly 
at  him  from  behind  the  green  fan  of  the  palm  leaf.  He 
clenched  his  fists,  cursing  the  evil  fate  that  for  a  while 
longer  must  keep  them  apart.  He  was  jealous  of  her 
success,  jealous  that  other  eyes  than  his  should  feast 
upon  her  weird  beauty.  Ah,  it  was  different  when  he 
was  painting  the  "Chamois  Hunter."  She  was  his 
then,  only  his.  But  he  was  ready  to  promise  anything 
if  the  future  was  assured  to  him. 

And,  at  last,  a  compact  was  made  between  them. 
Zelie  gave  her  promise  easily.  Words  meant  so  little 
to  her,  and  weeks  must  pass  before  Owen  was  ready  to 
claim  her.  To-morrow — what  heed  did  she  take  of 
to-morrow?  "To-morrow  never  comes" — the  old  saw 
rang  in  her  brain.  Owen  had  made  use  of  those  very 
words  to  her  once,  and  had  explained  their  truth.  To- 
morrow never  comes. 

A  born  actress,  she  played  her  part  skilfully.  She 
pretended  to  be  jealous  of  the  little  waxen  saint, 
Lavender  Percivale,  to  whom  Owen  had  engaged 
himself.  She  knew  now  that  she  had  no  cause  for 
jealousy;  Owen's  fidelity  to  her,  the  passion  which 
dominated  his  life,  was  clearly  to  be  read  in  every 
feature  of  his  face. 

"Very  well,  mon  ami,  let  it  be  understood  so.  We 
part  to-night,  you  as  an  engaged  man,  and  I  as  the 
star  of  the  London  season.  We  play  our  roles,  each 
independent  of  the  other,  until  such  time  as  fate  may 
bring  us  together  again.  Is  that  as  you  would  have  it  ?" 

He  bent  over  her.  She  could  feel  his  warm  breath 
upon  her  cheek.  "Yes,  Zelie,"  he  muttered.  "That 
is  understood — because  it  must  be  so,  and  there  is  no 


220  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

other  way.  But  don't  make  me  jealous  of  you,  don't 
let  me  feel  that  anyone  is  taking  my  place  in  your 
heart.  For  I  am  your  husband,  and  I  would  kill  you 
and  myself,  too,  rather  than  lose  you,  rather  than  give 
you  up  to  another." 

Zelie's  eyes  glittered.  She  thought  of  Bibi,  who  had 
said  much  the  same — though  Bibi's  ideas  of  love  were 
broader.  But  she  estimated  a  man  the  higher  when 
he  treated  her  to  threats — it  was  a  method  of  love- 
making  that  appealed  to  her  and  which  she  appreciated. 
She  had  liked  Owen  at  their  first  meeting  because  he 
despised  danger.  He  resembled  those  primitive  men — 
one  had  seen  them  in  imagination  as  she  danced — 
the  wild  men  of  cave  and  tree,  who  carry  off  their 
women  after  fighting  for  them  to  the  death. 

"And  now  we  will  go  back,"  she  said,  "back  to  the 
ballroom,  for  they  will  be  wondering  where  I  am,  and 
you,  too" — she  cast  him  a  quick  and  mischievous 
glance — "the  little  pale  saint  with  the  flaxen  hair,  she 
will  be  shedding  tears  for  her  lover,  the  lover  who 
has  neglected  her  this  evening.  You  will  dance  with 
her,  Owen,  and  you  will  whisper  sweet  things  in  her 
ear,  and  she  will  believe  you  when  you  say  that  you 
love  and  adore  her — and,  of  course,  she  will  forgive. 
Oh,  la,  la" — Zelie  lifted  her  arms,  clasping  her  fingers 
behind  her  head.  "But  what  a  farce  is  this  life !  Men 
and  women  alike,  we  are  not  worth  much,  we  all  have 
the  devil  in  us.  I  expect  that  your  prim  little  demoiselle 
has  been  consoling  herself  for  your  absence — and  why 
not?  It  is  better  to  laugh  than  to  weep." 

A  warm  flush  mounted  to  Owen's  cheeks.  He  felt 
that  he  should  have  defended  Lavender  from  such  an 
accusation  which  he  knew  to  be  false.  But,  after  all, 
Zelie  was  only  giving  expression  to  what  he  had  always 
professed  as  his  own  views  of  human  nature. 


"Very  well,  we  will  go,  Zelie,"  he  said,  "now  that 
we  understand  each  other.  But  my  lips  will  be  parched 
for  want  of  your  kisses — wife  whom  I  may  not  call 
wife." 

He  bent  over  her  and  would  have  taken  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  there  and  then,  but  she  repulsed 
him,  tapping  him  lightly  on  his  cheek  with  her  fan. 
She  was  minded  to  show  her  strength,  to  prove  to  her 
own  satisfaction  that,  now  and  henceforward,  she  could 
bend  this  man  as  all  others  to  her  caprices. 

And  she  did  not  wish  for  kisses,  neither  from  Owen, 
who  had  the  best  right  to  bestow  them,  nor  from  anyone 
else  in  the  world.  She  craved  for  wealth,  admiration, 
and  applause.  She  loved  no  other  but  herself.  She 
had  no  soul. 

"Go,  kiss  your  little  Madonna,"  she  said.  "Give  her 
the  cold,  saintly  kisses  that  she  expects.  If  you  went 
to  her  with  my  kisses  upon  your  mouth  your  lips  might 
burn  her — and  she  would  not  understand." 

"You  are  cruel,  Zelie,"  he  muttered ;  but  he  followed 
her,  and  together  they  made  their  way  to  the  ballroom. 

A  waltz  was  in  progress.  Owen  recognised  the 
melody  as  that  of  the  popular  musical  comedy  in  which 
Stephen  Aldis  had  made  his  last  success.  There  was 
a  passage  in  it  where  the  musicians  hummed  to  the 
refrain.  The  dancers  were  showing  a  tendency  to  join 
in  as  well,  and  there  was  much  laughter  and  some  good- 
natured  boisterousness.  The  more  sedate  of  the  guests 
had  already  departed,  and  the  younger  people  were 
allowing  their  spirits  to  find  a  vent. 

"Ah-ah-ah,"  hummed  the  orchestra,  and  "Ah-ah-ah," 
echoed  the  dancers,  as  they  whirled  madly  round. 
Zelie's  restless  feet  tapped  the  floor.  She  gripped 
Owen's  arm.  "Come,  let  us  dance,"  she  said,  eagerly. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

"Take  me  in  your  arms,  Owen,  and  let  us  mock  the 
world  together." 

He  clasped  her  to  him,  holding  her  almost  as  Bibi 
Coupe-vide  himself  would  have  helc^-Jier,  breast  to 
breast,  and  so  they  swung  into  the  dance,  and  for  a  few 
moments,  to  Owen,  there  was  no  boundary  between 
earth  and  heaven  and  hell. 

Nor  was  he  conscious  of  Lavender's  pale  face — 
Lavender,  who  stood  there  among  the  lookers-on,  with 
Robin  close  beside  her — Lavender,  to  whom  only  the 
day  before  he  had  promised  love  and  fidelity — 
Lavender,  who  was  pure  and  wholesome — Lavender, 
who  did  not  understand. 

"Ah-ah-ah"  the  orchestra  was  shouting  now  rather 
than  humming,  and  "Ah-ah-ah"  repeated  Owen,  laugh- 
ing down  into  the  eyes  that  were  raised  to  his,  con- 
scious of  the  red,  alluring  lips,  of  the  supple  body 
which  he  clasped  so  tightly,  of  the  heart  that  beat  so 
close  to  his  own.  This  was  a  delirious  madness — it  was 
worth  living  for. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  refrain,  the  music  broke 
down.  Someone  had  mounted  the  stage  and  was 
speaking  in  a  rapid  undertone  to  the  conductor.  The 
dancers  came  to  a  halt,  staring  at  each  other  and  asking 
what  had  happened.  Some  shouted  a  protest.  "Go  on, 
go  on!"  One  or  two  couples,  with  less  restraint  than 
the  rest,  went  on  dancing,  despite  the  cessation  of  the 
music. 

The  man  who  had  mounted  the  stage  stepped  for- 
ward, holding  out  his  arm  as  though  to  indicate  that 
he  wished  to  speak.  It  was  Gilbert  Farrington,  the 
artist,  and  he  was  recognised  at  once  by  his  friends 
among  the  dancers,  who  shouted  out  his  name,  pro- 
testing loudly  against  his  interruption.  It  was  a  mo- 
ment or  two  before  he  could  make  his  voice  heard. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  223 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  He  seemed  to  feel  the 
awkwardness  of  his  task.  "But  our  host  has  asked 
me  to  explain.  There  has  been  an  accident,  a  terrible 
accident,  I  am  afraid.  I  don't  know  the  particulars  of 
it  yet,  but  I  fear  that  someone — that  someone  has  lost 
his  life." 

He  brought  out  the  words  jerkily,  though  he  was 
speaking  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice,  so  as  to  be  audible 
from  end  to  end  of  the  great  hall.  A  hush  fell  as  the 
import  of  his  words  became  clear.  To  Owen,  after 
the  noise  and  laughter,  it  was  almost  as  if  he  had  been 
stricken  with  sudden  deafness. 

"I'm  afraid  that  there  is  nothing  that  we  can  do  but 
withdraw  quietly,"  Gilbert  Farrington  continued. 
"Our  host  has  asked  me  to  make  this  communication 
and  to  beg  you  to  forgive  him  if  he  himself  is  unable 
to  bid  you  good-night.  I  am  sure  that  we  must  all 
sympathise  with  him  in  this  disastrous  conclusion  to  so 
pleasant  an  entertainment." 

Gilbert  Farrington  descended  from  the  platform  to 
a  room  full  of  people  that  his  words  had  thrown  into 
confusion.  But  it  was  in  whispers  now  that  everyone 
spoke.  "Who  is  it?  Who  has  been  hurt?  How  did 
it  happen?  Is  he  really  dead?" 

Fresh  intelligence  had  arrived  by  now  from  other 
quarters,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  name  of 
Stephen  Aldis  was  upon  everyone's  lips.  Stephen 
Aldis  was  dead — some  said  he  had  been  murdered; 
Stephen  Aldis,  whom  only  an  hour  or  so  ago  they  had 
applauded  upon  the  stage;  Stephen  Aldis,  the  univer- 
sal favourite,  the  darling  of  London  audiences.  There 
were  many  among  the  women  who  made  no  attempt  to 
hide  their  tears,  while  one  or  two  were  led  away  crying 
hysterically. 

It  happened  in  the  garden.    He  was  found  by  Sir 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

Donald  Ransom  and  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer  lying  dead 
— either  shot  or  stabbed — some  said  one,  some  the 
other.  The  murderer  was  caught,  too,  after  a  terrible 
tussle  with  Sir  Donald — he  wasn't  one  of  the  guests, 
oh,  no — a  tramp  who  must  have  broken  in  from  out- 
side— there  was  a  public  footway  close  by.  But  no  one 
knew  exactly,  and  everyone  had  a  different  story  to 
tell. 

And  then,  as  the  hall  was  gradually  clearing,  a  pain- 
ful episode  occurred.  For — nobody  knew  exactly  from 
whence  she  came — a  wild-eyed  woman,  with  her  ball- 
dress  in  disarray  and  her  hair  loosened  about  her 
shoulders,  came  rushing  across  the  room,  her  arms 
stretched  out.  There  were  few  who  recognised  her  at 
that  moment  as  Cecily  Cuthbert. 

"Is  he  dead?"  she  screamed.  "Oh,  God  in  heaven, 
tell  me,  is  he  dead?" 

Some  kindly  matrons  closed  round  her  and  she  was 
led  away.  But  even  when  she  was  no  longer  seen  her 
screams  resounded  in  the  ears  of  the  shuddering  guests, 
by  now  collecting  in  the  hall  waiting  for  the  motor- 
cars and  carriages  that  drove  up  to  the  door  and  then 
drove  off  again  as  quietly  and  expeditiously  as  possible. 

Out  in  the  gardens  the  fairy  lamps  were  being  extin- 
guished, the  Chinese  lanterns  torn  down  from  the  trees. 
But  it  was  not  till  later  on,  when  the  last  of  the  guests 
had  departed  and  when  the  ladies  of  the  house  party 
had  been  sent  up  to  their  rooms,  that  a  solemn  little 
procession  made  its  way  across  the  lawn  from  the  fatal 
summer-house  in  the  wood  to  the  main  entrance  of  the 
castle.  They  carried  between  them  an  improvised 
stretcher  upon  which,  reverently  covered,  lay  the  body 
of  London's  favourite — Stephen  Aldis. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THERE  came  a  knock  at  Zelie's  door  some  half  an  hour 
after  that  mournful  procession  had  reached  its  des- 
tination, and  when  all  was  still  in  Chamney  Castle. 

Zelie  had  removed  her  ball-dress,  and  was  sitting 
at  her  toilette-table,  dressing  her  hair  for  the  night. 
For  the  last  few  minutes,  however,  she  had  been 
resting  idly,  her  elbow  upon  the  table,  gazing  at  her 
reflection  in  the  mirror. 

Her  lips  were  set  in  a  straight  line,  and  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  anyone  to  tell  what  her  thoughts 
might  be.  She  was  not  grieving  for  the  death  of 
Stephen  Aldis;  he  had  meant  nothing  to  her  in  her 
life,  and  she  had  only  mocked  at  the  passion  which  she 
had  aroused  in  his  breast.  Only,  as  yet,  she  did  not 
know  exactly  how  he  had  come  by  his  death,  and  there 
were  uneasy  suspicions  in  her  mind. 

Together  with  the  other  ladies  of  the  house-party, 
she  had  been  sent  off  to  her  room  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity. She  had  not  seen  Lord  Martyn — she  had  seen 
nobody  who  could  give  her  any  information.  From 
her  window,  however,  she  had  been  witness  of  the 
bringing  in  of  Stephen  Aldis's  body;  she  had  seen 
policemen,  too,  and,  later,  some  time  after  the  last  of 
the  guests  had  departed,  another  carriage  had  driven 
off,  starting  from  the  stables,  and  not  from  the  front 
door.  But  as  it  passed  down  the  main  drive  she  had 
noticed  that  there  was  a  policeman  sitting  upon  the 
box. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  Bibi  had  been  fool  enough 
to  make  a  blunder?  She  had  not  warned  him — 

225 


226  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

frightened  away  from  the  arbour  as  she  had  been  by 
Stephen  Aldis's  amorous  overtures — so,  supposing  that 
Bibi,  lurking  there,  had  struck  the  wrong  man,  or, 
again,  supposing  he  had  been  witness  of  Aldis's  attempt 
to  embrace  her,  and  had  been  seized  by  a  wild  fit  of 
jealousy  ? 

Either  one  or  the  other  was  possible,  and  granted 
that  it  was  Bibi  who  had  done  this  thing,  how  was  his 
mad  act  going  to  affect  her  future?  That  was  the 
principal  question,  the  only  question  that  mattered. 

"Bah,"  she  exclaimed,  grimacing  at  her  reflection 
in  the  glass.  "Let  it  be  so  if  Fate  wills.  Why  should 
I  suffer?  What  was  it  that  made  my  name  in  Paris, 
that  brought  me  out  of  the  slums?  Was  it  not  that 
men  fought  for  me,  shed  their  blood,  and  died?  It 
was  that  that  made  people  want  to  see  Zelie  the  Snake. 
It  was  blood  that  made  me  famous  in  Paris,  and  it 
shall  be  blood  that  makes  me  famous  in  London."  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Let  it  be  so,  I  care  not," 
she  muttered.  "But  Bibi — ah,  the  fool,  the  fool." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  knock  came  at  her  door, 
and  Madame  de  Freyne  appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"May  I  come  in,  Zelie?"  said  the  journalist.  "I'm 
far  too  troubled  to  think  of  going  to  bed,  and  I  should 
like  to  have  a  little  talk." 

She  had  a  dark  dressing-gown  of  some  rich  material 
wrapped  about  her,  and  her  steel-blue  eyes  were 
clouded,  while  her  strong,  rather  masculine,  face  had 
little  lines  of  trouble  about  the  mouth. 

"This  is  a  terrible  business,  Zelie,"  she  said,  sinking 
into  a  chair.  "I  was  fond  of  Steve  Aldis.  There's 
hardly  a  man  in  London  whose  future  should  have  been 
as  bright  as  his.  And  to  die  like  this,  to  be  murdered, 
when  he  was  little  more  than  on  the  threshold  of  his 
real  life — oh,  it's  cruel,  cruel!" 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  227 

She  passed  the  Sack  of  her  hand  across  her  eyes, 
which  were  wet.  "We've  had  a  terrible  time  with 
Cecily,  too,"  she  went  on,  "but  she's  quieter  now,  and 
perhaps  will  sleep.  But  I  don't  know — I  don't  know. 
She  was  like  a  mad  woman  for  a  while,  and  she  said 
things" — the  journalist  shuddered — "which — which  I 
should  not  like  to  repeat.  I  think  there  must  have  been 
some  quarrel  between  her  and  Steve  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  for  no  one  seems  to  have  seen  her  much 
after  supper,  though  one  of  the  maids  tells  me  that  she 
ran  upstairs  to  her  own  room — oh,  quite  a  long  time 
before  we  heard  about  Steve's  murder,  and  that  her 
face  was  so  white  that  my  informant  thought  she  was 
ill,  and  asked  if  she  could  do  anything  for  her.  But 
she  only  shook  her  head  and  flung  herself  into  the 
room,  locking  the  door  behind  her.  She  didn't  come 
out  again  till  she  rushed  down  to  the  ball-room — you 
remember  how  she  screamed."  Madame  de  Freyne 
pressed  her  fingers  to  her  ears. 

"I  am  sorry  for  Mademoiselle  Cuthbert,"  said  Zelie, 
but  without  conviction.  "But  I  think  she  was  foolish, 
Madame  Eve,  and  she  did  not  know  how  to  keep  a 
man's  love." 

"Ah,  Zelie,  Zelie,"  said  the  other  woman  sadly,  "I 
don't  blame  you — it  isn't  your  fault  that  men  are  ready 
to  sacrifice  their  souls  for  you,  but  it  may  be  hard 
upon  other  women.  Have  a  care,  Zelie,  lest  one  day 
even  worse  may  befall." 

Zelie  only  shrugged  her  shoulders,  making  no  reply. 
There  was  no  remorse  in  her  heart,  nor  did  she  feel 
herself  to  blame  for  Cecily  Cuthbert's  agony. 

"I've  seen  Harry,"  Madame  de  Freyne  said,  after 
a  pause,  during  which  she  waited  for  that  word  of 
sympathy  which  never  came.  "Do  you  know,  Zelie, 
who  it  was  that  struck  the  blow?" 


228  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

Zelie  was  more  interested.  She  turned  in  her  chair, 
playing  with  a  ruby  ring  that  she  wore — it  was  one 
which  Owen  had  given  her — twisting  it  round  and 
round  upon  her  finger.  "No,  I  haven't  heard.  Who?" 

"It  was  your  Apache  friend — the  man  who  danced 
with  you  to-night — Bibi." 

Zelie  was  prepared  for  the  answer,  but  the  corners 
of  her  lips  went  down,  and  for  the  moment  Eve  de 
Freyne,  scrutinising  her  face,  wondered  what  beauty 
men  could  see  in  it. 

"The  fool!"  Zelie  muttered.  "The  blind  fool!" 
Then  she  put  a  sharp  question.  "He  was  taken,  was 
he  not?  Has  he  given  any  explanation?" 

Eve  de  Freyne  shook  her  head.  "He  says  he  is 
innocent,"  she  replied.  "Yet  he  was  taken  almost 
red-handed.  And  he  had  poor  Steve's  pocket-book, 
his  watch  and  chain,  and  other  valuables,  about  his 
person.  The  man  is  a  thief  and  a  murderer.  Yet 
he  says  that  he  is  innocent." 

Zelie's  brows  contracted  in  a  heavy  frown.  Yes, 
of  course,  it  was  evident  that  the  whole  thing  has  been 
an  abominable  blunder.  Bibi,  believing  that  he  had 
killed  Owen  Mayne,  had  been  carrying  out  Zelie's  in- 
structions, taking  the  dead  man's  watch  and  chain 
and  other  belongings,  in  order  that  it  might  be  thought 
that  some  tramp  had  broken  in  from  the  public  foot- 
path. And  he  had  been  surprised  and  captured  before 
he  had  time  to  escape  from  the  scene  of  his  crime. 

She  drummed  with  her  fingers  upon  the  table  impa- 
tiently. "Well,  I  am  not  responsible  for  Bibi  Coupe- 
vide  being  at  Chamney  Castle,"  she  said  defiantly. 
"He  did  not  come  at  my  invitation.  I  did  not  even 
know  that  he  was  in  England."  She  spoke  the  lie 
glibly.  "It's  true  that  when  I  saw  him  I  suggested 
he  should  dance  with  me,  but  that  is  because  I  knew 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  229 

that  our  dance  would  be  the  greater  success.  It  was 
for  the  sake  of  art."  She  flung  out  the  words  with 
biting  sarcasm. 

"No  one  blames  you,  Zelie,"  said  Madame  de  Freyne 
sadly.  "Harry  himself  was  the  first  to  absolve  you. 
But  it  is  a  terrible  thing,  and,  from  happiness  and 
enjoyment  we  have  been  plunged  into  the  direst  sor- 
row and  tragedy.  And  I  feel  nervous  to-night,"  she 
went  on,  drawing  the  folds  of  her  dressing-gown  more 
closely  about  her,  as  if  she  were  cold,  "as  though  it 
were  not  all  over  yet,  as  though  there  were  more  hor- 
rors to  come — oh!  perhaps  not  immediately,  but  that 
they  are  brooding  over  us." 

Suddenly  she  drew  herself  up  in  her  chair.  "Hush !" 
she  murmured.  "What  is  that  ?" 

Zelie  turned  and  listened.    Both  women  could  hear 

the  sound  of  a  footfall  in  the  corridor  without.    There 

was  an  intense  silence  in  the  house,  save  for  that  one 

,   sound — light  footsteps,  as  of  bare  feet,  and  they  were 

drawing  nearer  to  the  door. 

Madame  de  Freyne  started  up  and  laid  her  strong, 
muscular  hand  upon  Zelie's  bare  arm.  "Cecily,"  she 
muttered.  "I  am  sure  it  must  be  Cecily.  Who  else 
should  be  wandering  about  the  house  at  this  hour  ?" 

Zelie  hunched  her  shoulders,  but  did  not  move.  The 
doings  of  Cecily  Cuthbert  were  of  small  importance 
to  her  at  that  moment.  She  was  thinking  of  Bibi 
Coupe-vide,  and  if  he  would  betray  her. 

The  steps  passed  the  door,  and  could  be  heard  re- 
treating down  the  corridor.  "I  can't  stand  this — I 
must  see  what  is  the  matter !"  Eve  de  Freyne,  strong, 
level-headed  woman  though  she  was,  was  trembling 
a  little  as  she  spoke  the  words.  She  stepped  quickly 
to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

She  saw  the  figure  of  a  girl,  clad  in  black,  who  was 


230  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

on  the  point  of  turning  out  of  the  corridor  into  the 
gallery  upon  which  it  opened.  There  was  something 
almost  ghostlike  in  the  way  she  seemed  to  glide  along, 
and  her  arms  were  lifted  above  her  head. 

"It  is  Cecily!"  Madame  de  Freyne  turned  an  awe- 
struck face  to  Zelie.  "I'm  sure  she's  going  to — to 
the  chamber  of  death !  She  isn't  in  her  right  mind — 
she  can't  be !  Zelie,  I  must  follow  her — for  Heaven's 
sake,  come,  too!" 

Unpleasing  to  her  as  was  the  suggestion,  Zelie  was 
constrained  to  comply.  The  two  women  followed 
quickly  down  the  long  corridor  in  pursuit  of  the  ghost- 
ly figure. 

They  saw  it  again  when  they  reached  the  gallery. 
This  was  a  wide  space  which  formed  a  communica- 
tion with  the  more  central  block  of  the  building.  Here 
were  the  best  bedrooms,  and  it  was  in  one  of  these, 
as  Eve  de  Freyne  already  knew,  that  the  body  of 
Stephen  Aldis  had  been  laid  out;  and  it  was  at  the 
door  of  this  room  that  Cecily  Cuthbert  was  now  hesi- 
tating. 

At  that  moment  another  figure  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  It  was  that  of  Lord  Martyn,  and  he  was  still 
fully  dressed.  He,  too,  had  evidently  been  disturbed 
by  the  sound  of  footsteps  passing  his  door. 

Cecily  turned  and  cast  a  half-frightened,  half-defiant 
glance  at  her  pursuers.  A  grey  light  was  filtering  in 
from  a  high,  uncurtained  window — the  light  of  dawn. 
She  had  entered  the  room  before  they  could  come 
up  to  her,  the  great  oak-panelled  room,  with  its  som- 
bre hangings,  its  closely-drawn  curtains,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  four-post  bedstead  upon  which  lay  the  dead 
man.  Four  tall  candles  were  burning  upon  the  mantel- 
piece. 

When  Lord  Martyn,  followed  by  the  two  women,  in 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

his  turn  entered  the  room,  it  was  to  see  Cecily  upon 
her  knees  by  the  bed,  her  arms  stretched  out,  her  face 
buried  in  them,  her  blonde  hair  streaming  over  the 
white  sheet.  Her  whole  body  was  convulsed  with 
sobs. 

Martyn  touched  her  very  gently  upon  the  shoulder. 
"Cecily/  he  said,  "you  must  go  back  to  your  room. 
This  is  no  place  for  you,  and  it  can  do  no  good  either 
to  him  who  is  dead  or  to  yourself." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  regarded  him  fiercely.  She 
did  not  seem  to  perceive  the  two  women  who  stood 
huddled  together  upon  the  threshold. 

"Leave  me  alone!"  she  cried  wildly.  "Leave  me 
with  my  dead!  I  must  watch  by  his  side!"  They 
could  hear  her  teeth  chattering.  "I  must  watch  and 
pray!"  she  moaned,  "watch  and  pray!" 

Eve  de  Freyne  stepped  forward  pityingly,  and  with 
gentle  speech.  But  her  movement  betrayed  the  pres- 
ence of  Zelie  to  Cecily  Cuthbert.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  at  that  moment  she  was  no  longer  a  soft- 
haired,  soft-voiced  English  girl — she  was  a  fury  un- 
loosed, and  every  quiver  of  her  body  was  a  denun- 
ciation. 

The  filmy  black  dress  she  wore  had  slipped  down 
from  her  white  shoulders,  exposing  the  exquisite  con- 
tour of  neck  and  breast;  her  arms,  bare  too,  were 
stretched  out  straight  before  her,  the  fingers  extended 
and  pointed  at  Zelie. 

"You — you!"  she  screamed.  "Have  you  come  to 
look  upon  your  handiwork — to  gloat  over  your  victim  ? 
See,  then!  See!" 

Before  she  could  be  restrained  she  had  torn  the 
sheet  from  the  dead  man's  face,  the  ashen  face  that 
yet,  in  death,  preserved  its  beauty. 

Cecily  gripped  Zelie  by  the  arm,  and  despite  her 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

resistance  dragged  her  forward.  At  that  moment  she 
had  the  strength  of  a  madwoman. 

"Murderess!  murderess!"  she  cried.  "You  killed 
this  man  as  surely  as  if  your  own  hand  had  struck 
the  blow !  Here,  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  I  accuse 
you!  His  blood  is  upon  your  head!  Lift  up  your 
hands  and  let  us  see  the  hue  of  them !  Ah !  you  dare 
not!  you  dare  not!" 

With  an  hysterical  cry  she  seized  one  of  Zelie's 
hands,  and  held  it  up,  and,  strangely — almost  as  though 
it  were  an  omen — a  ray  of  light,  a  first  ray  of  the 
rising  sun,  shot  across  the  room,  stealing  in  from  be- 
tween the  closed  curtains,  and  it  fell  upon  Zelie's  out- 
stretched hand,  tingeing  it  red.  It  was  but  the  effect 
of  a  moment,  but  Cecily  broke  into  a  fierce  laugh. 

"You  see!  you  see!"  she  cried.  "The  answer  has 
come  direct  from  Heaven!"  She  flung  Zelie's  hand 
away  from  her,  and  then  fell  back,  moaning,  into  the 
arms  of  Eve  de  Freyne. 

"She  is  mad!"  said  Zelie,  between  her  teeth,  as 
Eve  picked  up  the  girl  in  her  strong  arms,  even  as  she 
might  a  child,  and  carried  her  from  the  room. 

"Yes,  she  is  mad — mad  with  grief — and  does  not 
know  what  she  says,"  responded  Martyn.  But  later, 
after  he  had  conducted  Zelie  to  her  room,  he  returned  to 
the  death  chamber  and  stood  gazing  down  at  the  white, 
upturned  face  of  the  man  who  had  been  his  friend. 

"Yes,  there  is  blood  upon  the  panther's  claws,"  he 
muttered,  "the  panther  that  I  let  loose  to  prey  upon 
the  world.  It  has  begun  even  sooner  than  I  expected." 

He  clasped  his  hands  together  and  fell  upon  his 
knees.  "Forgive  me,  Steve,"  he  prayed,  "and  pity 
me — for  I  am  punished!"  He  lowered  his  voice  al- 
most to  a  whisper.  "But  one  day  you  will  be  avenged 
— for  the  panther  rent  its  master,  too !" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  omnibus  rattled  and  rumbled  over  the  hard  road 
on  its  way  back  to  Selwood  Manor,  and  its  occupants, 
for  the  most  part,  were  very  silent. 

Lavender's  head  rested  against  her  lover's  shoul- 
der, and  her  hand  clasped  his.  But  she  found  him 
cold  and  unresponsive,  and  it  seemed  as  if  her  own 
heart  were  chilled  too.  Of  course,  they  were,  one  and 
all,  upset  by  the  terrible  tragedy  which  had  brought 
the  entertainment  to  so  untimely  a  close.  But  Lav- 
ender wanted  comforting  so  badly,  yet  Owen  sat  there 
silent,  his  lips  compressed  together,  and  she  felt  that 
his  thoughts  were  far  away. 

The  rest  of  the  party  had  been  less  restrained  dur- 
ing the  early  part  of  the  drive.  They  had  discussed 
.the  murder,  and  had  now  and  then  appealed  either 
to  Lavender  or  to  Owen.  None  of  them  knew  Aldis 
at  all  intimately,  and  so  they  had  no  personal  cause 
for  sorrow. 

The  dawn  was  breaking,  a  grey  and  misty  dawn, 
and  the  trees  on  either  side  of  the  road  looked  white 
and  ghostly. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  at  the  Ferrars'  cottage,  then 
the  omnibus  rattled  on  again  till  it  reached  the  gates 
of  the  long  avenue  leading  to  Selwood  Manor. 

The  groom  opened  the  gate,  and  the  omnibus  turned 
in;  a  few  more  minutes,  now,  and  the  interminable 
drive  would  be  over. 

Suddenly,  when  they  were  almost  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue,  close  to  the  spot  where  the  trees  on  either 
side  gave  place  to  lawns,  there  came  a  jolt,  a  shock, 

233 


234  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

and  the  three  occupants  of  the  omnibus  were  almost 
thrown  from  their  seats. 

The  coachman  backed  the  omnibus,  and  shouted  to 
his  horses.  Both  of  them  appeared  frightened,  and 
were  restive.  One  had  nearly  fallen,  being  only  just 
pulled  up  in  time. 

Owen  threw  open  the  door  and  sprang  out.  Then 
he  helped  Lavender  to  alight.  Robin  followed. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  It  was  still  dark  in  the  ave- 
nue, though  only  a  few  yards  further  on  the  lawns 
appeared  white  and  shimmering  in  the  dawn.  Owen 
addressed  the  coachman,  who,  by  now,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  the  groom,  who  had  run  to  their  heads,  had 
nearly  mastered  the  horses. 

"Can't  make  it  out,  sir,"  was  the  reply.  "One  would 
have  thought  that  the  horses  had  stepped  upon  some- 
thing, but  there's  nothing  in  the  way  that  I  can  see." 

Owen's  eyes  swept  the  ground,  then  he  advanced 
a  few  paces.  Suddenly  he  stumbled  and  fell. 

He  was  on  his  feet  again  in  a  moment.  "Take 
care !"  he  said  to  Robin,  who  was  following  him. 

Then  he  stooped  down  and  examined  a  wire  that  was 
stretched  taut  across  the  road,  and  at  the  level  of  a 
few  inches  above  it. 

He  knew  what  that  wire  indicated.  So  did  Robin, 
who  by  now  was  at  his  side. 

"My,  God,  Robin!  There  have  been  burglars  at 
the  Manor!"  muttered  Owen. 

With  a  jerk  of  his  powerful  wrist  Robin  tore  down 
the  wire,  and  then,  after  a  swift  glance  at  Lavender, 
a  glance  that  expressed  the  deepest  concern,  he  set 
off  at  a  run  for  the  house.  It  was  distant  only  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  or  so.  He  reached  the  front  door 
before  the  omnibus,  with  Owen  and  Lavender,  could 
drive  up. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  235 

He  had  had  a  premonition  of  evil,  to  all  appearance 
absolutely  unreasonable,  ever  since  leaving  the  castle, 
and  now  the  feeling  had  utterly  possessed  him.  Thieves 
had  broken  into  the  Manor — of  that  there  could  be 
no  doubt — but  there  was  more  mischief  in  the  wind 
than  mere  theft.  Robin  was  sure  of  it,  though  he 
could  not  have  explained  why. 

Owen  had  the  same  fear,  for  it  was  as  if  there  was 
some  strange  telepathic  influence  at  work  that  night; 
but  for  Lavender's  sake  he  refrained  from  giving  any 
expression  to  it.  He  consoled  the  girl  as  best  he  could. 
He  would  have  concealed  from  her  the  interpretation 
which  Robin  and  he  had  placed  upon  the  obstruction 
in  the  way,  but  she  had  overheard  their  mutual  ex- 
clamation. 

"Yes — there  have  been  burglars.  I  don't  think  there 
can  be  any  doubt  of  it,  but  they've  got  away,  undis- 
turbed, long  ago.  See!  Dawn  is  breaking.  It  just 
means  a  loss  of  the  silver.  Probably  the  household 
has  slept  quietly  through  it  Your  aunt  will  know 
nothing  till  we  tell  her." 

He  repeated  the  last  phrase  once  or  twice,  as  if  to 
reassure  himself.  Yet  he  felt  the  heart  within  his 
breast  clasped  as  in  a  vice,  and  it  seemed  as  if  an 
icy  hand  was  compressing  his  brow.  Supposing  some 
terrible  mishap  had  befallen  his  aunt — what  then  ?  His 
conscience  tortured  him.  Morning  was  breaking  with 
a  lurid  light,  the  tree  tops  swayed  and  rustled  omi- 
nously, and  from  somewhere  in  the  distance  a  dog 
howled.  He  seemed  to  smell  death  in  the  air. 

He  opened  the  door  hurriedly  with  his  key,  and 
they  entered  the  hall.  Robin  had  found  another  wire 
stretched  just  across  the  porch,  and  this,  too,  he  had 
torn  down.  Within  all  appeared  in  order.  The  great 
central  lamp  gave  a  feeble  glow  of  light — it  had  been 


236 

left  burning  in  case  the  party  returned  before  dawn. 
The  windows  were  closely  shuttered,  and  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  place  was  cold  and  ghostly,  but  nothing 
had  been  disturbed — the  thieves  had  not  passed  that 
way. 

Lavender  would  have  run  straight  to  Mrs.  Alder- 
son's  room,  but  was  prevented  by  Robin,  who  had 
taken  command  of  the  proceedings.  He  agreed  with 
Owen  that  the  old  lady  should  not  be  disturbed  unless 
it  were  necessary;  in  the  state  of  her  heart,  a  sudden 
alarm  might  have  serious  consequences. 

So  Owen  remained  with  Lavender  in  the  hall  while 
Robin  went  to  arouse  Hicks,  the  butler,  and  to  find  out 
where  the  thieves  had  obtained  an  entry,  and  the 
extent  of  their  depredations. 

"I  dare  say  they've  confined  their  attentions  to  the 
pantry,"  he  said,  for  Lavender's  benefit. 

"Oh !  but  that  isn't  likely !"  faltered  Lavender,  who 
was  pale  with  alarm  and  apprehension.  "There's  the 
jewellery.  The  burglars  must  have  heard  of  mother's 
pearls  and  diamonds — the  heirlooms.  She  keeps  them 
in  the  little  boudoir  that  adjoins  her  bedroom — there's 
a  safe  there,  you  know."  She  wrung  her  hands  de- 
spairingly. "Oh!  my  dear  mother!  If  she  has  been 
disturbed  in  such  a  way — in  the  middle  of  the  night — 
the  shock  must  have  killed  her !" 

Owen  listened  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  but  there 
came  no  sound  from  above. 

"No  alarm  has  been  given,"  he  said,  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  cheerfulness.  "Everyone  seems  to  be  asleep. 
And  the  less  noise  we  make  ourselves  the  better.  Why, 
we  might  be  taken  for  the  thieves!"  He  forced  a 
laugh. 

Lavender  was  bitterly  repentant  for  having  gone 
out  that  night.  "There  is  no  one  else  who  sleeps  any- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  237 

where  near  mother's  room,"  she  said  despairingly.  "I 
wanted  her  to  have  Mamey  with  her,  as  I  should  be 
away,  but  she  wouldn't.  You  see,  my  bedroom  is  just 
on  the  other  side  of  the  boudoir,  so  that  I  could  always 
be  called  if  I  was  wanted." 

After  a  few  moments,  Robin,  who  had  hurried  off 
on  his  errand,  returned.  His  face  was  very  grave. 

"They  got  in  by  a  window  near  the  kitchen,"  he 
whispered  hurriedly.  "The  glass  has  been  broken  and 
the  shutter  forced.  The  pantry  has  been  ransacked. 
They  have  been  upstairs,  too;  I  can  see  the  marks 
of  their  boots  on  the  back  staircase.  And  Hicks  is 
not  in  his  room." 

The  two  men  glanced  at  each  other,  then  Robin, 
without  further  word,  led  the  way  to  the  first  floor 
of  the  house,  where  he  turned  off  into  the  wide  cor- 
ridor where  Mrs.  Alderson's  room  was  situated.  Owen 
and  Lavender  followed  on  tiptoe.  The  groom,  who 
had  hurried  back  to  the  house  after  helping  the  coach- 
man with  the  horses,  remained  below,  ready  to  answer 
if  he  was  called. 

It  was  quite  silent  in  the  corridor.  The  morning 
light  streamed  in  through  a  red-stained  glass  window 
at  the  far  end.  But  one  or  two  doors  that  should 
have  been  shut  stood  open,  and  once  Robin  pointed 
to  marks  of  muddy  footprints  on  the  soft,  rich  carpet. 

The  door  of  Mrs.  Alderson's  room  was  shut,  as 
was  that  of  the  adjoining  bedroom.  It  was  outside 
the  latter  that  the  little  party  came  to  a  halt.  They 
listened  breathlessly  before  turning  the  handle. 

"There's  someone  here !"  whispered  Owen  in  Robin's 
ear.  "I'll  swear  I  can  hear  deep  breathing!"  He  laid 
a  detaining  hand  upon  Lavender's  arm.  "Stay  where 
you  are,  dear,"  he  entreated.  "Don't  go  in!" 

But  she  disregarded  this  injunction  altogether.    She 


238  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

pushed  her  way  past  the  two  men  and  flung  herself 
into  the  boudoir.  Then  she  uttered  a  sharp  cry. 

The  room  was  in  disorder.  Chairs  and  tables  were 
overthrown,  and  there  were  all  the  signs  of  a  violent 
struggle.  The  door  of  the  safe  stood  open,  and  boxes 
and  papers  were  littered  upon  the  floor.  A  lantern, 
such  as  the  burglars  might  have  used,  was  still  burn- 
ing upon  the  top  of  the  safe,  and  a  candle  lay  by  the 
side  of  a  heavy  brass  poker  upon  the  carpet,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

Propped  up  against  the  wall,  bound  and  gagged,  was 
Hicks,  the  butler.  He  appeared  to  be  only  half  con- 
scious. His  hair  was  matted  on  his  forehead,  and 
there  was  a  red  stain  on  one  of  his  cheeks.  His  lips 
were  swollen,  and  his  face  congested;  he  was  breath- 
ing with  difficulty  because  of  the  gag  that  had  been 
thrust  into  his  mouth. 

Robin  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment,  cutting  the 
thongs  that  bound  him.  But  Lavender,  after  her  sharp 
cry,  had  run  straight  into  the  adjoining  room,  that 
of  Mrs.  Alderson,  the  door  of  which  stood  wide  open. 
A  few  seconds  later  another  scream  escaped  her  lips. 

Owen  joined  her,  and  together  they  stood  in  speech- 
less agony — though  there  was  a  very  different  founda- 
tion for  the  suffering  of  each — by  the  bedside  of  a  dead 
woman. 

Mrs.  Alderson  lay  there  on  the  outside  of  the  bed. 
She  wore  a  dressing-gown — one  of  the  dainty,  laven- 
der-perfumed confections  that  she  affected — and  the 
silken  quilt  had  been  drawn  up  over  her  body.  She 
lay  on  her  back,  and  her  hands  were  folded  across  her 
breast.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  whole  aspect 
of  her  face  was  peaceful.  Lavender  had  imagined 
at  first  that  she  was  asleep,  and  her  heart  had  leapt 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  239 

joyfully;  then  she  had  touched  the  pale  cheek,  and 
understood. 

Owen  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment  upon  his  aunt's 
breast,  then  he  readjusted  the  quilt,  and,  taking  Lav- 
ender by  the  arm,  led  her  gently  away.  For  this  was 
a  chamber  of  death. 

In  the  boudoir,  Hicks  was  coughing  and  gasping 
back  to  consciousness.  Lavender  herself,  despite  her 
own  trouble,  and  her  streaming  eyes,  ministered  to 
him  as  well  as  she  could.  The  groom  had  already 
been  despatched  to  Selwood  to  notify  the  doctor  and 
the  police. 

And  before  long  the  butler  was  able  to  tell  what 
had  happened.  A  stiff  dose  of  brandy  brought  him 
round,  and  he  managed,  with  Robin's  help,  to  walk 
down  to  the  hall,  where  they  all  remained,  with  the 
exception  of  Lavender,  till  the  assistance  summoned 
from  the  little  town  should  arrive.  Lavender,  at 
,  Owen's  urgent  request,  had  retired  to  her  own  room, 
where  she  could  mourn  for  her  dead  undisturbed. 

"I  woke  up,  gentlemen,"  said  Hicks  huskily,  "to 
hear  the  fellows  creeping  upstairs.  They  must  have 
made  their  way  straight  to  the  boudoir  after  breaking 
in;  knew  just  exactly  where  to  go,  they  did.  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do,  and  I  hadn't  got  any  sort  of  arms. 
I  took  up  the  first  thing  that  came  handy — the  poker 
— and  I  went  after  them,  poker  in  one  hand,  candle 
in  the  other.  I  felt  dazed-like,  and  hadn't  a  plan  in 
my  head.  You  see,  sirs,  we've  never  had  nothing 
of  the  sort  before." 

The  butler  spoke  apologetically,  as  if  he  had  an 
idea  that  he  might  be  held  responsible.  "They  were 
in  the  boudoir  when  I  got  upstairs,"  he  went  on,  "and, 
without  waiting  to  think  whether  I  was  doing  right 
or  wrong,  I  threw  open  the  door.  I  was  mortal  fright- 


240  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

ened,  gentlemen,  but  I  had  to  do  it.  You  see,  there 
was  Mrs.  Alderson,  who  might  be  in  danger — and 
she's  always  been  a  good  mistress  to  me.  And  now, 
only  to  think  of  it,  she's  dead — she's  dead!"  He 
broke  off  to  rub  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Well,  I  was  seized  in  a  moment,"  he  continued. 
"There  were  two  of  them — big,  tall  fellows — I  could 
swear  to  them  again — and  they  had  already  got  to 
work  on  the  safe.  I  suppose  it  was  about  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  I  made  the  best  fight  I  could,  but 
of  course  it  was  all  against  me.  One  of  them  had 
a  revolver,  and  threatened  to  fire,  but  evidently  didn't 
want  to  do  so.  They  got  me  down,  and  began  to 
bind  me.  It  was  just  then  that  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Alderson's  room  opened,  and  she  herself  appeared. 
She  was  in  her  dressing-gown,  and  so  quiet  and  calm 
you'd  never  have  believed  it. 

"  'Don't  hurt  him !'  that's  what  she  said,  and  her 
voice  was  as  gentle  as  if  she  had  been  speaking  to 
you  or  me.  'Since  you  have  broken  into  my  house 
to  steal,'  she  went  on,  'take  what  you  want,  and  go 
quietly.'  Then  suddenly  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
heart  and  sank  down — without  a  cry  or  a  groan — it 
must  have  killed  her  to  be  aroused  so  roughly  by  the 
noise  that  was  going  on  in  the  next  room  to  hers. 
Well,  one  of  the  men  went  to  her,  while  the  other  fin- 
ished binding  me  up.  I  heard  him  say  that  she  was 
dead.  They  made  no  further  noise,  and,  as  you  know, 
gentlemen,  not  another  soul  in  the  house  was  aroused. 
When  I  was  quite  helpless  they  propped  me  up  against 
the  wall,  and  then  they  went  and  carried  Mrs.  Alder- 
son  gently — I'll  say  that  for  them — to  her  bed.  After- 
wards they  came  back,  forced  the  safe,  and  cleared  it 
out,  and  then  they  stole  quietly  away.  One  of  them 
forgot  his  lantern.  Any  other  room  they  went  to 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

must  have  been  visited  afterwards.  And  so  I  was 
left  alone,  with  my  dead  mistress  in  the  next  room, 
the  rope  cutting  into  my  flesh,  hardly  able  to  breathe 
for  the  gag,  and  the  blood  trickling  from  a  blow  on 
the  head  which  one  of  the  fellows  had  given  me.  It 
was  awful,  Mr.  Mayne,  sir" — Hicks  passed  a  trem- 
bling hand  over  his  brow — "and  the  time  seemed  to 
crawl — I  could  hear  the  stable  clock,  you  know — 
but  at  last  I  must  have  partly  lost  consciousness,  for 
I  remember  nothing  more  until  you  gentlemen  came." 

Dr.  Murray  arrived  soon  after  the  story  was  con- 
cluded, but  all  that  remained  for  him  to  do  was  to 
verify  the  death  of  Mrs.  Alderson  and  express  his 
sympathy — which  he  did  in  no  measured  terms.  Mrs. 
Alderson  was  a  woman  whom  all  the  county  would 
mourn.  Few  had  been  so  universally  beloved  as  she. 

Owen  played  his  part,  both  with  the  doctor,  and, 
later  on,  with  the  police.  There  was  no  rest  for  him 
that  night.  But  when  at  last  he  found  time  to  go  to 
his  own  room  to  change  his  clothes  he  gazed  at  his 
reflection  in  the  glass,  and  wondered  at  what  he  saw 

For  all  the  gay  insouciance  of  the  Owen  Mayne  of 
Paris  days  seemed  to  have  passed  away.  To  him- 
self he  looked  and  felt  an  old  man.  His  face  was 
blanched  and  haggard,  his  eyes  had  lost  their  lustre. 
At  the  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  mirror  was  reflect- 
ing his  soul  to  him — and  his  soul  was  ugly  and  foul 
and  mean. 

"She  is  dead — and  the  old  will  is  still  in  force,"  he 
muttered.  "Every  penny  is  Lavender's — nothing  mine. 
And  Lavender  would  give  it  to  me,  but,  for  that,  I 
must " 

He  smote  his  cheek  heavily  with  his  open  palm. 
"Blackguard!  blackguard!"  he  cried.  "The  devil  is 
paying  you  the  wages  of  your  hire !" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IT  was  the  day  after  the  funeral,  as  impressive  a 
funeral  as  the  county  had  ever  witnessed.  All  the 
neighbourhood,  rich  and  poor  alike,  had  trooped  to 
Selwood  to  pay  the  last  tribute  of  respect  to  the  good 
woman  who  had  always  placed  the  wants  and  the 
sufferings  of  others  so  far  above  her  own. 

Among  those  present  was  Lord  Martyn,  who  him- 
self had  come  from  a  house  of  mourning.  For  Stephen 
Aldis  still  lay  dead  at  Chamney  Castle,  though  his 
body  was  to  be  moved  that  night  and  conveyed  in  a 
special  train  to  London,  where  the  funeral  would 
be  held  on  the  morrow.  There  had,  of  course,  been 
an  inquest,  and  the  unanimous  verdict  of  the  jury  was 
one  of  murder  against  the  prisoner — Bibi  Coupe-vide. 
There  were  some  in  court  who  maintained  that  the 
Frenchman's  appearance,  his  demeanour — even  his  ab- 
surd name — were  enough  to  convict  him,  even  if  the 
evidence  were  not  so  strong.  And  yet  he  still  had  the 
face  to  deny  his  guilt ! 

The  events  at  Chamney  and  Selwood  had  provided 
the  county  with  inexhaustible  themes  of  conversation 
and  gossip.  Lord  Martyn's  wonderful  entertainment 
and  its  tragic  ending,  of  course,  took  precedence.  It 
was  said — even  as  Zelie  had  expected — that  the  mur- 
der was  really  due  to  jealousy;  that  the  Apache  had 
seen  the  dancing  girl  in  too  intimate  converse  with 
the  popular  and  handsome  actor,  and  that  he  had 

242 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  243 

avenged  himself  after  the  manner  of  his  kind.  This 
story  was  in  contradiction  to  that  officially  put  for- 
ward— the  tale  that  Lord  Marty n  himself  had  told 
at  the  inquest — which  maintained  that  Stephen  Aldis 
had  been  incensed  against  the  Frenchman  because  of 
certain  letters — details  as  to  which  were  not  consid- 
ered necessary  to  the  case — letters  that  the  French- 
man had  in  his  possession,  and  refused  to  surrender. 
It  was  suggested  that  hot  words  had  passed,  leading 
up  to  the  final  tragedy.  Aldis  had  threatened — so 
Lord  Martyn  testified — to  break  the  fellow's  neck. 
Therein,  no  doubt,  lay  the  provocation  to  the  fatal 
blow.  The  fact  that  the  murderer  had  removed  the 
dead  man's  watch  and  other  effects  did  not  prove  that 
robbery  was  the  first  temptation;  it  was  assumed  that 
Bibi's  natural  cupidity  had  come  into  force  as  soon  as 
his  victim  was  lying  dead  at  his  feet. 

The  story  told  by  Bibi  himself,  through  an  inter- 
preter, was  a  ridiculous  one,  so  all  who  heard  it  agreed. 
He  maintained  that  he  had  come  upon  the  scene  after 
the  murder  had  been  committed.  He  had  found  the 
body  lying  in  the  summer-house,  and  had  bent  over 
it  to  ascertain  if  the  man  were  really  dead.  Finding 
that  he  was,  Bibi  had  succumbed  to  the  temptation 
of  removing  whatever  valuables  he  might  find  in  the 
pockets.  It  was  while  he  was  doing  so  that  he  had 
been  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Sir  Donald 
Ransom  and  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer. 

Of  course,  this  version  of  the  affair  was  absurd. 
For  what  had  taken  Bibi  Coupe-vide  to  the  arbour, 
in  the  first  instance,  and  who  else  was  there  who 
would  have  dreamed  of  doing  so  popular  a  man  as 
Stephen  Aldis  to  death? 

Someone  who  had  broken  in  from  without,  so  it 
was  suggested  on  Bibi's  behalf.  The  fence  was  dam- 


244  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

aged,  and  there  were  footmarks  on  the  soft  earth  by 
the  side  of  the  path  outside — also,  the  grass  had  ob- 
viously been  trodden  down.  But  all  this  evidence  was 
turned  against  the  prisoner.  It  was  shown  that  his 
coat  bore  green  stains  acquired  from  the  fence,  and 
his  boot  fitted  exactly  in  the  footprints.  This  all  went 
to  show  that  he  had  made  deliberate  efforts  to  avert 
suspicion  from  himself,  and  only  served  to  blacken 
the  case  against  him. 

Of  course,  Lord  Martyn's  house  party  had  broken 
up  on  the  day  following  the  murder.  Some  sympa- 
thy was  expressed  for  him,  but  there  were  many  who 
shook  their  heads,  and  regarded  him  as  the  chief  cause 
of  the  calamity.  "The  idea  of  having  such  a  creature 
in  the  house!"  declaimed  outraged  propriety,  lifting 
horrified  hands.  "But,  then,  the  man  makes  a  point 
of  offending  the  feelings  of  his  neighbours." 

Owen  was  in  a  sullen  frame  of  mind  those  days,  and 
could  not  help  his  mental  disturbance  showing  itself 
upon  his  face.  He  carped  bitterly  at  fate  for  hav- 
ing played  him  so  falsely.  While  other  men  regarded 
him  as  an  object  of  envy — the  accepted  lover  of  so 
beautiful  and  wealthy  a  girl  as  Lavender — he  him- 
self— and  for  good  reason — regarded  his  position  as 
utterly  hateful  and  unendurable.  He  could  not  even 
temper  it  with  that  cynicism  which  had  borne  him 
through  other  troubles  in  the  old  Paris  days.  And, 
of  all  things,  he  hated  most  having  to  be  with  Lav- 
ender in  her  grief,  having  to  comfort  her,  having  to 
play  the  role  of  her  lover.  Every  kiss,  every  embrace, 
was  to  him  a  torture  devised  by  some  devil  for  the 
racking  of  his  nerves.  He  could  always  hear  the 
mocking  laugh  of  the  imp  perched  upon  his  shoulder 
whenever  Lavender  leaned  her  head  against  his  breast 
in  her  desire  to  find  solace  for  her  tears. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  245 

Once  she  spoke  of  her  inheritance.  The  substance 
of  the  will  was  already  known,  for  Mr.  Jerrold,  the 
solicitor,  had  come,  as  was  arranged,  to  Selwood 
Manor  on  the  day  following  the  burglary,  only  to 
find  that  no  fresh  disposition  of  the  property  was  now 
possible. 

"But  it  doesn't  matter,  dear,  does  it?"  Lavender 
whispered.  "You  know  that  what  is  mine  is  yours, 
and  when  we  are  married  you  shall  have  the  control 
of  everything." 

"When  we  are  married!"  The  biting  irony  of  it! 
It  must  be  another  six  months  at  least  before  mar- 
riage could  be  thought  of,  and  in  the  meanwhile  how 
was  it  possible — even  if  he  could  bring  himself  to 
suggest  it — to  get  Lavender  to  transfer  her  fortune 
to  him?  She  had  placed  her  affairs  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Jerrold,  a  kindly,  white-haired  old  gentleman,  who 
had  acted  for  the  Aldersons  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
and  he  would  naturally  raise  objections  to  a  gift  pure 
and  simple,  even  of  part  of  the  estate,  and  would 
insist  that  any  fresh  arrangement  should  be  by  way 
of  marriage  settlement. 

He  avoided  Lavender  as  much  as  he  could  in  those 
days  that  preceded  the  funeral,  but  this  only  threw 
him  into  the  company  of  Robin,  who  irritated  him 
beyond  measure  by  his  way  of  talking  cheerily  of  the 
fortune,  and  his  palpable  avoidance  of  any  subject  that 
might  suggest  the  name  of  Zelie.  There  were  times 
when  Owen,  goaded  to  a  pitch  of  exasperation,  could 
have  turned  upon  his  friend  and  cursed  him — it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  held  himself  in  check,  and  his 
bad  temper  was  only  too  obvious. 

By  the  advice  of  the  solicitor,  Lavender  had  in- 
vited a  relation  of  her  own,  a  certain  Mrs.  Foxhall, 
a  cousin  of  her  mother's,  to  come  to  the  Manor  and 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

fill  the  necessary  role  of  chaperon.  Mrs.  Foxhall  had 
duly  arrived,  happy,  since  she  was  a  poor  woman,  at 
the  good  fortune  which  had  thrown  such  a  position 
in  her  way.  She  was  a  lady  of  comfortable  propor- 
tions, who  made  a  point  of  agreeing  amiably  with 
everything  that  everybody  said.  Owen  hated  her  from 
the  first,  and  she  was  obviously  afraid  of  him. 

Upon  the  day  following  the  funeral,  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  Robin  found  Lavender  alone  in  the 
garden,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  which  she 
did  her  best  to  wipe  away  when  she  saw  him  com- 
ing. A  few  minutes  earlier  he  had  espied  Owen  hur- 
rying across  the  lawn,  walking  with  long  strides,  his 
head  bent,  and  now,  finding  Lavender  so  tearful,  Robin 
began  to  suspect  that  something  must  be  wrong. 

But  she  would  not  take  him  into  her  confidence  at 
first.  She  tried  to  talk  of  ordinary  topics,  but  the 
effort  was  a  pitiful  one.  Robin  thought  how  sad  she 
looked,  and  yet  how  inexpressibly  pure  and  lovely,  in 
her  black  gown.  What  a  contrast  to  Zelie,  who  af- 
fected black  for  choice!  Robin  figured  them  both 
as  "night,"  and  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  French 
girl  as  the  representation  of  some  horrible  and  terri- 
fying dream;  while  Lavender,  she  was  night  at  its 
holiest,  soft  and  dewy  and  kind — the  night  that  gives 
rest  and  content  to  tired  eyes. 

"There  is  something  troubling  you,  Miss  Percivale," 
he  blurted  out  at  last,  "something  fresh.  I  know  I 
have  no  right  to  question  you,  but — but  I  can't  bear 
to  see  you  looking  so  sad." 

"How  can  I  help  it?"  she  said.  "Mr.  Clithero,  I 
miss  her  more  and  more  every  day." 

Robin  regarded  her,  reading,  as  he  had  the  power 
to  do,  into  the  depths  of  her  soul.  "I  know  how  you 
sorrow  for  your  loss,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  Mrs. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  247 

Alderson  was  to  you,  and  you  to  her.  But  it  was 
not  of  her  that  you  were  thinking  just  now,  Miss 
Percivale." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  She  looked  up  with  faint 
astonishment.  She  had  never  considered  Robin  Cli- 
thero  in  any  other  light  than  the  friend  of  Owen 
— an  excellent  fellow,  kind-hearted  and  loyal.  "How 
do  you  know?"  she  added,  with  a  faint  blush  that 
clearly  indicated  his  surmise  correct. 

"Because" — he  paused  and  hesitated — "because  your 
eyes  betray  you,  Miss  Percivale."  He  would  have 
liked  to  tell  her  how  he  had  studied  those  eyes  of 
hers,  that  he  knew  every  shade  of  feeling  they  could 
express,  but  he  dared  not  speak  so  freely.  What  right 
had  he  to  do  so  ? 

"You  were  thinking  of  Owen,"  he  said  simply. 

"Yes."  Here  resistance  broke  down.  "Oh!  Mr. 
Clithero,  you  know  him  so  well — you  are  a  friend  of 
his — perhaps  you  can  tell  me — explain  to  me."  She 
clasped  her  hands  together.  "Owen  hasn't  been  the 
same  to  me  ever  since  dear  mother  died — I'm  not  sure 
that  it  wasn't  earlier — ever  since  we  went  to  Cham- 
ney.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  for  he  is  always  very 
gentle,  very  kind — but  I  feel  it  here."  She  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  bosom.  "I  can't  help  thinking  that 
there  is  something  on  his  mind — that  he  doesn't" — she 
hesitated,  and  then  brought  the  words  out  with  a  rush 
— "that  he  doesn't  love  me!" 

"Oh!  but,  Miss  Percivale!"  began  Robin  protest- 
ingly. 

"I  mean  utterly,  and  without  reservation,"  the  girl 
interrupted.  "I  don't  think  he  loves  me  as  I  love 
him.  I've  always  had  that  fear.  Once,  before  we 
were  actually  engaged,  he  looked  at  me  pitifully,  and 
said  under  his  breath,  'You  poor  little  girl!'  I  never 


248  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

knew  why  he  said  that.  I  told  mother,  and  she  thought 
it  was  because  he  was  sorry  for  the — for  my  family 
troubles.  But  I  don't  know — I  don't  know."  The  girl 
shook  her  head  ominously. 

"I'm  sure  he  loves  you,"  declared  Robin  stoutly. 
"He  couldn't  help  himself."  Yet  Robin  spoke  with 
greater  assurance  than  he  felt.  He,  too,  had  noticed 
the  change  in  Owen's  manner,  and  ascribed  it  to  its 
true  cause.  He  cursed  his  friend  under  his  breath. 
What  was  he  about,  to  bring  tears  to  such  eyes  as 
those  of  Lavender  ?  That  vampire,  that  snake-woman, 
Zelie — it  was  she  who  was  to  blame. 

"If  he  loves  me,"  said  Lavender  slowly,  "why  does 
he  want  to  leave  me — at  such  a  time — when  I  need 
him  most?" 

"To  leave?"  faltered  Robin.  He  thought  he  had 
not  heard  aright 

"Yes — to  leave  me,"  repeated  Lavender.  "He  has 
just  told  me  that  he  must  go  to  London,  and  he  will 
not  say  for  how  long.  He  was  so  strange  in  his  man- 
ner, too— I'm  sure  he  was  keeping  something  from 
me.  Oh !  Mr.  Qithero !  you  don't  think  he  is  ill,  and 
doesn't  like  to  let  me  know?" 

"Ill  go  and  see  Owen — have  a  talk  with  him,"  said 
Robin,  frowning,  and  altogether  ignoring  the  last  ques- 
tion. "I'll  go  at  once." 

He  paused  only  to  arrange  the  cushions  behind  Lav- 
ender's head.  She  was  seated  in  a  low  chair  under  a 
great  cedar  tree,  and  had  a  book  by  her  side. 

"You  can  go  on  reading,"  he  commanded,  "and  don't 
fret." 

She  pretended  to  do  as  he  bade  her  as  long  as  he 
was  in  sight,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  disappeared  the 
book  fell  to  the  ground  again,  and  Lavender  sat  gaz- 
ing into  a  mist  of  sad  memories  and  future  fears. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  «49 

Robin  did  not  find  Owen  all  at  once.  He  searched 
the  house  before  he  thought  of  looking  in  Owen's  bed- 
room, and  it  was  there  he  found  him,  surrounded  by 
his  portmanteaux  and  other  luggage,  which  he  was 
feverishly  engaged  in  packing. 

Rarely  had  Robin  felt  so  angry  with  his  friend. 
He  could  not  keep  his  annoyance  from  his  voice,  and 
spoke  abruptly  and  with  a  sternness  quite  unusual 
to  him. 

"Owen,  what  does  this  mean?" 

Owen  appeared  absorbed  in  his  task.  At  last,  when 
Robin  repeated  his  question,  he  glanced  up. 

"Oh!  it's  you,  is  it?    What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  are  doing." 

"Owen  resumed  his  work.  "You  can  Me  for  your- 
self— packing." 

"You  are  going  away?* 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"To-day — this  evening — the  sooner  the  better,** 

"Owen,  you  are  mad!"  Robin  advanced  into  the 
room.  For  the  moment  he  almost  believed  that  what 
he  said  was  true,  so  wild  a  light  shone  in  his  friend's 
eyes.  "Surely  you  must  know  that  your  duty  is  here?" 
he  added  sharply. 

"Duty !"  The  other  rose  to  his  feet  He  had  been 
bending  over  a  half-packed  portmanteau.  "You  are 
always  prating  of  duty,  damn  you!  I'm  sick  to  death 
of  it  Can't  you  leave  me  to  manage  my  own  affairs?" 

"No!"  replied  Robin,  with  heat.  "Not  when  I  see 
that  you're  making  someone  miserable — someone  whom 
you  have  sworn  to  love  and  cherish."  With  some 
difficulty  he  modulated  his  voice.  "Good  Heavens, 
man!  what  do  you  want  to  go  away  for — just  now, 
when  Lavender  is  sad,  and  wants  the  comfort  of  your 


250  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

presence?  I  found  her — not  half  an  hour  ago — in 
tears !" 

"I  can't  help  it."  Owen  kicked  the  hasp  of  a  dress- 
ing-case savagely.  "Lavender  has  got  to  cry.  The 
sooner  she  gets  the  tears  over,  the  better.  You'd  bet- 
ter stay  and  dry  her  eyes." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Suddenly  Robin's  voice 
had  become  steady  and  even.  His  calm  was  ominous. 

"I  mean  just  this."  Owen  brushed  back  a  lock  of 
his  dark  hair  that  was  hanging  over  his  brow.  He 
was  in  a  reckless,  desperate  mood,  and  did  not  care 
what  he  said.  "Things  have  gone  wrong.  It's  no  use 
my  staying  here.  I  can't  keep  up  the  farce  any  longer. 
My  nerves  are  all  on  edge." 

"Since  you  met — Zelie  ?" 

Owen  nodded.  "Yes — since  I  met  Zelie.  You'd 
better  know  the  truth.  I'm  going  to  London  to  find 
Zelie." 

"You  propose  to  abandon  Lavender — to  whom  you 
have  pledged  your  word — for  that  hell-cat?  You  will 
throw  over  an  assured  future — wealth  and  position? 
There's  no  doubt  of  it — you  are  mad!" 

Owen  broke  into  a  fierce  laugh.  At  that  moment 
it  was  as  if  the  devil  himself  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  He  wanted  to  hurt  others  as  he  himself  was 
hurt.  Let  the  worst  be  known. 

"Is  a  man  mad  because  he  wants  to  claim  his  wife  ?" 

"His  wife!"  Robin  staggered  as  if  he  had  been 
struck.  He  lifted  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "His  wife !" 
he  repeated  vaguely. 

"That's  what  I  said.  Zelie  is  my  wife.  I  married 
her  in  Paris,  soon  after  we  first  met.  You  can  verify 
the  fact  for  yourself." 

"My  God!— then  Lavender?" 

"I  have  cheated  Lavender — cheated  you — cheated 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  251 

everyone.  I  wanted  my  aunt's  fortune,  and  played 
for  it.  You  know  the  plot.  I've  lost  the  game  because 
she  died  before  a  new  will  was  made.  Lavender  has 
it  all,  and  I  can't  marry  Lavender  because  I  have  a 
wife — Zelie.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  if  I  could,  for  there's 
no  other  woman  in  the  world  for  me  but  the  one  who 
is  mine  by  every  right." 

"You  blackguard!  You  vile,  cruel  devil!  But  it 
isn't  true!  It  can't  be  true!"  Robin  was  trembling 
in  every  limb. 

"It's  true — I  swear  it!"  Owen  laughed  again, 
laughed  provokingly.  He  felt  as  if  hot  irons  were 
searing  his  heart,  and  he  could  find  no  other  relief  for 
his  pain  but  in  a  laugh. 

Robin  lost  all  control  of  himself.  He  saw  in  con- 
fused vision  the  sweet,  pathetic  face  of  Lavender — 
her  humid  eyes,  her  lips  that  trembled  as  they  made 
their  plaintive  appeal.  How  she  would  suffer!  It 
.was  as  if  a  dagger  had  actually  been  thrust  into  her 
bosom.  And  the  murderer  stood  there — and  laughed 
as  he  confessed  his  crime ! 

He  must  silence  that  laugh,  choke  it  to  extinction 
with  his  strong  fingers.  At  that  moment  it  was  Owen's 
laugh  that  dominated  everything.  With  a  hoarse  cry 
of  rage  Robin  sprang  over  the  portmanteau  that  in- 
tervened between  Owen  and  himself,  and  before  Owen 
realised  his  danger  he  was  seized  by  the  throat,  shaken, 
and  at  last,  as  his  cheeks  assumed  the  hue  of  suffoca- 
tion, thrown  violently  to  the  ground. 

He  lay  there,  panting  and  gasping.  Robin  stood 
over  him,  his  long  arms  outstretched,  his  breast  heav- 
ing. He  was  only  just  beginning  to  realise  what  he 
had  done. 

Presently  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  prostrate 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

man.  "My  God,  Owen!"  he  cried.  "I  might  have 
killed  you!" 

"I  wish  you  had,"  said  Owen  feebly.  "It  would 
have  been  the  best  thing — for  me.  The  end  of  it  all 
— the  end."  He  dragged  himself  up  to  a  sitting  posi- 
tion by  the  aid  of  the  leather  side  of  the  portmanteau, 
against  which  he  had  fallen. 

"And  you  saved  my  life  once !"  groaned  Robin,  "and 
I've  looked  up  to  you,  admired  you,  set  you  on  a 
pedestal !  And  now — Heaven  preserve  us ! — why  did 
you  do  this  thing?" 

"It's  as  well  you  should  know  me  in  my  true  col- 
ours, "_said  Owen,  fingering  his  throat.  "I  don't  bear 
you  any  grudge  for  knocking  me  about,  Rob.  I  de- 
serve it.  If  you'd  killed  me  it  would  have  been  what 
I  merit.  I  am  a  blackguard.  But  that  admission 
doesn't  help  things.  You  see  I've  got  to  go.  I  can't 
atone  to  Lavender,  but  the  sooner  she  forgets  me 
the  better.  I'll  write  from  London  and  break  my 
engagement.  It's  all  I  can  do.  I'm  going  away  a 
penniless  man — that  is  some  punishment  upon  me ;  and 
I  despise  myself — which  is  a  greater  penalty  still." 

"And  I — what  shall  I  do?"  Robin  spread  out  his 
hands  helplessly. 

"You?"  Owen  scrambled  to  his  feet.  "Stay  here 
and  comfort  Lavender.  She  will  need  you.  You  love 
her — I'm  quite  aware  of  that  fact."  The  eyes  of  the 
two  men  met.  "Perhaps  some  day  she  will  forget 
me  and  turn  to  you.  Anyway,  I  wish  it  may  be  so. 
For  myself,  I  am  going  out  of  her  life.  I  am  return- 
ing to  my  destiny — to  Zelie — if  she  will  have  me." 

He  muttered  the  last  words  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IT  was  the  month  of  July,  and  the  London  season  was 
on  the  wane — a  particularly  brilliant  season,  altogether 
unmarred  by  the  threatening  aspect  of  the  political 
horizon.  It  was  a  long  while  since  there  had  been 
such  a  succession  of  brilliant  entertainments,  parties 
and  balls,  such  an  array  of  handsome  debutantes,  so 
lavish  a  display  of  social  extravagance. 

And,  of  course,  the  inevitable  touch  of  the  bizarre, 
the  unorthodox,  had  not  been  wanting.  On  this  oc- 
casion it  was  supplied  by  Zelie,  Queen  of  the  Apaches, 
the  dancing  girl  of  Montmartre,  who  had  appeared 
in  London  like  a  meteor  and  had  straightway  become 
.  a  centre  of  attraction  to  all  classes  alike.  She  made 
her  first  formal  bow  to  the  British  public  from  the 
vast  stage  of  the  Star  Theatre,  soon  after  the  tragedy 
at  Chamney  Castle,  with  which  her  name  had  indi- 
rectly been  associated,  owing  to  her  admitted  connec- 
tion with  the  man  who  was  charged  with  the  murder, 
and  never  before  in  the  history  of  the  stage  had  so 
enthusiastic  and  remarkable  a  reception  been  recorded. 
For  it  was  as  if  Zelie  had  the  power  of  hypnotising 
her  audiences  by  some  remarkable  force  inherent  to 
her  personality.  Calm  judgment  was  suspended  when 
she  danced;  criticism  went  by  the  wind.  Press  and 
public  declared  that  she  was  wonderful,  that  her  per- 
formance was  a  triumph  of  art,  and  there  were  few 
who  ventured  to  hint  at  a  contrary  opinion.  This, 
though  Zelie  herself,  with  typical  frankness,  made 

253 


254  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

mock  of  her  admirers,  and  habitually  addressed  them 
with  her  tongue  in  her  cheek.  A  great  measure  of 
her  success  was  due  to  this  attitude — a  fact  which 
Zelie  was  quick  enough  to  recognise  and  to  make  the 
most  of. 

Her  photographs  filled  the  shop  windows,  she  was 
interviewed  and  bepuffed,  the  illustrated  papers  in- 
dulged in  supposed  biographies  of  her  life,  biogra- 
phies which  made  Zelie  hold  her  sides  with  laughter 
when  she  had  them  translated  to  her.  There  was  one 
that  even  went  so  far  as  to  find  her  a  pedigree,  and 
to  talk  about  the  quiet  home  of  her  childhood  with 
deeply  devoted  parents,  in  some  Paris  suburb. 

She  became  the  "rage."  Her  dancing  was  described 
as  "a  fine  moral  lesson."  There  were  clerical  digni- 
taries who  preached  sermons  to  this  effect.  Some  few 
took  the  opposite  side,  and  discussion  arose — heated 
argument — all  wholly  beneficial  to  the  notoriety  of 
the  dancer  and  to  the  exchequer  of  the  Star  Theatre. 

And  this  was  just  what  Lord  Martyn  had  antici- 
pated, prophesied,  played  for.  It  was  precisely  in 
this  way  that  he  had  designed  to  mock  the  world.  He 
had  called  the  tune  of  malice  aforethought,  knowing 
that  the  foolish  rabble  would  rush  and  jostle  to  play 
the  part  which  he  had  assigned  to  it.  He  had  done 
this  because  he  despised  mankind,  because  he  had  a 
grudge  against  his  fellow  creatures,  because  he  wanted 
to  laugh  at  them  in  his  heart,  to  bring  them  to  scorn 
and  derision.  It  was  a  rare  joke  that  he  had  prom- 
ised himself,  a  joke  at  the  world's  expense. 

And  here  was  the  irony  of  it,  for  his  joke  had  been 
turned  against  himself.  All  had  happened  as  he  had 
foreseen,  but  he  could  derive  no  mirth  from  the  suc- 
cess of  his  scheming.  Like  Frankenstein,  he  had  cre- 
ated his  monster,  and  his  strength  was  not  equal  to 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  255 

its  suppression.  For  his  own  amusement  he  had  given 
Zelie  to  the  world,  promising  himself  a  fine  feast  of 
ridicule,  and  now — the  jest  had  lost  its  savour.  He 
could  find  no  food  for  laughter. 

He  had  foreseen  the  danger  when  it  was  too  late. 
The  allegory  of  the  panther,  freed  from  its  cage,  by 
which  he  had  represented  his  action  to  himself,  had 
proved  itself  all  too  quickly  no  vain  imagining.  One 
of  his  dearest  friends  had  already  succumbed  to  the 
claws  of  the  beast,  and — there  were  worse  things  in 
store.  It  was  of  these  that  Lord  Martyn  was  think- 
ing that  July  afternoon  as  he  restlessly  paraded  the 
floor  of  his  study,  pausing  occasionally  to  gaze,  with- 
out seeing,  from  his  window  upon  the  dusty  trees 
and  parched  grass  of  a  London  square — for  he  had 
been  residing  in  town  ever  since  the  tragedy  at 
Chamney. 

He  did  not  blame  Zelie;  he  had  no  reason  to  sus- 
pect that  she  was  in  any  way  at  fault  for  what  had 
happened  that  fatal  night.  It  was  not  even  her  fas- 
cination which  had  been  the  cause  of  Stephen  Aldis's 
death — or  so  Martyn  believed — though  the  opinion 
generally  held  in  London  was  that  the  fatal  blow  had 
been  struck  for  reasons  of  jealousy — this  in  spite  of 
the  evidence  at  the  police-court  proceedings,  which 
made  the  incriminating  letters,  the  attempted  black- 
mail, responsible  for  everything.  London  had  taken 
far  more  interest  in  Zelie  because  of  her  supposed 
connection  with  a  "crime  of  passion."  It  was  a  repe- 
tition, on  a  more  exalted  scale,  of  what  had  happened 
in  Paris  when  a  music-hall  engagement  had  followed 
that  drama  of  the  gutter  when  some  half-dozen  rough 
fellows  had  fought  and  bled  for  her — the  Queen  of 
the  Apaches. 

But  while  not  blaming,  Lord  Martyn  would  willingly 


256          TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

have  undone  what  he  had  done.  Zelie  was  a  danger, 
whatever  her  actual  intentions  might  be.  Could  not 
the  panther  be  lured  back  into  its  cage — or,  at  any 
rate,  be  removed  from  a  spot  where  its  presence  was 
to  be  feared?  Even  in  those  days,  now  the  best  part 
of  three  months  ago,  Marty n  vaguely  foresaw  where 
the  next  blow  would  fall,  and  he  was  ready  to  pay 
any  sum,  to  run  any  personal  risk,  to  avert  so  ghastly 
a  happening. 

And  so,  a  day  or  two  after  the  funeral  of  Stephen 
Aldis,  he  approached  Zelie,  who  was  then  staying  with 
Mme.  de  Freyne,  pending  the  completion  of  other  ar- 
rangements, and  suggested  that  a  return  to  her  native 
land  might  be  desirable,  considering  the  scandal  that 
would  be  stirred  up  at  the  forthcoming  trial  of  Bibi 
Coupe-vide.  He  knew  all  the  time  that  his  arguments 
were  not  likely  to  have  weight. 

"You  see,  your  name  can't  be  kept  out  of  it,  Zelie," 
he  said,  "because  it  was  at  your  invitation  the  fellow 
stayed  at  the  castle  that  night.  It  will  do  you  no  good 
to  be  connected  in  the  public  mind  with  such  a  cut- 
throat scoundrel." 

Zelie  lifted  her  long,  velvety  lashes  and  regarded 
him  lazily.  "Do  you  mean  that,  mon  ami?" 

"I  do,"  he  lied,  for  his  argument  was  contrary  to 
all  his  theories. 

"Ah !  but  I  think  you  are  wrong.  The  good  public 
is  curious.  There  has  been  much  written  about  me 
in  your  newspapers  already.  I  have  been  given  most 
excellent  advertisement."  She  nodded  her  small  head 
sapiently.  "They  will  want  to  see  Zelie  of  Montmartre 
with  their  own  eyes.  Wait  but  a  little,  Milor  Harry. 
It  will  all  fall  out  as  you  have  said.  I  shall  have  un 
succcs  fou, — a  wild  success — do  not  fear  for  that." 

It  transpired  after  this  that  all  Zelie's  arrangements 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  257 

for  appearing  at  the  Star  Theatre  had  practically  been 
made.  Mr.  Radcliffe,  the  manager,  was  not  the  man 
to  allow  the  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet,  and  he 
had  recognised  that  the  dancer  had  already  gained 
a  certain  notoriety.  Much  had  been  said  and  writ- 
ten about  the  remarkable  entertainment  at  Chamney 
Castle,  and  the  part  which  Zelie  had  played  in  it.  Her 
skill  at  her  particular  art — the  word  was  already  freely 
used — had  been  commented  upon.  She  was  a  novelty 
for  the  theatre  by  no  means  to  be  lost  sight  of. 

Lord  Martyn  attempted  other  arguments,  including 
a  liberal  offer  of  money,  but  they  all  proved  equally 
inefficacious.  Zelie's  mind  was  made  up.  She  meant 
to  pursue  her  stage  career  and  to  fulfil  the  predictions 
of  her  success.  Martyn  was  silenced — there  was  noth- 
ing more  to  be  said.  The  stone  that  he  had  set  rolling 
could  not  be  stayed,  even  though  an  avalanche  should 
follow  in  its  track. 

He  had  a  faint  hope  that  society  might  not  take 
up  the  dancer,  after  all,  in  spite  of  the  plans  he  had 
made  to  facilitate  such  a  result.  But  here,  again,  he 
had  laid  his  ground  too  carefully;  every  seed  that 
he  had  planted  came  to  fruition.  The  Duchess  of 
Shiplake,  for  instance,  regarded  him  with  eyes  of  as- 
tonishment when  he  ventured  to  suggest  that  Zelie 
was  better  suited  for  the  music-hall  stage  than  for  a 
society  leader's  drawing-room. 

So  Zelie  danced  at  the  Duchess  of  Shiplake's  "At 
Home,"  and  after  that  she  practically  went  every- 
where. Even  royalty  smiled  upon  her  graciously. 

She  accommodated  herself  marvellously  to  this  new 
and  difficult  environment.  She  was  never  awkward 
or  self-conscious.  She  had  natural  grace  of  bearing, 
and  she  quickly  learned  to  avoid  anything  in  speech 
or  gesture  that  might  offend.  She  learnt  a  little  Eng- 


258  TWO  APACHES  OE  PARIS 

lish,  which  she  would  talk  with  a  delightful  lisp.  SHe 
knew  exactly  how  to  dress  to  the  best  advantage,  and 
the  fashion  which  she  set  in  this  regard — a  gown 
which,  however  rich  it  might  be,  still  gave  some  subtle 
suggestion  of  Montmartre — was  freely  copied  by  those 
who  fancied  that  their  figures  permitted  it — to  say 
nothing  of  those  who,  without  figures  to  boast  of, 
slavishly  imitated  what  they  believed  to  be  "the  thing." 
Had  Lord  Martyn  been  in  the  mood  to  appreciate 
it,  he  would  have  recognised  in  this  a  laughable  phase 
of  his  practical  joke  upon  society. 

Eve  de  Freyne  had  proved  an  excellent  mistress. 
Zelie  owed  much  of  her  success  to  the  journalist.  They 
continued  to  live  together,  this  partly  because  Eva 
had,  like  so  many  others  of  both  sexes,  yielded  to  the 
strange  fascination  of  the  dancer,  and  partly  because 
Lord  Martyn  had  requested  that  it  might  be  so.  He 
imagined  that  the  older  woman  would  have  a  restrain- 
ing and  beneficial  influence,  and  in  a  measure  this 
was  the  case,  but,  unfortunately,  her  profession  often 
called  Mme.  Eve  away  from  home. 

Besides,  Zelie  was  the  very  last  person  upon  earth 
to  be  restrained  by  anyone.  She  went  her  own  way, 
and  this  was  a  way  that  was  solely  of  self-interest. 
She  had  no  love,  no  emotions,  no  feelings,  save  for 
herself  and  her  own  advancement.  Mme.  Eve  often 
wondered  at  the  cold,  calculating  cruelty  of  her  ideas, 
but  knew  human  nature  well  enough  to  understand 
that  these  were  merely  primitive  instincts,  and  that, 
however  thickly  the  veneer  might  be  painted  on,  be- 
neath it  all  Zelie  remained  the  savage  that  she  was 
born — naked  and  unashamed — soulless. 

Of  course,  admirers  swarmed  to  do  her  homage. 
She  smiled  on  all  in  general.  She  took  all  she  could 
get  from  them,  and — gave  nothing  in  return.  In 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  259 

that  respect  no  stone  could  be  cast  at  her.  She  was 
like  a  siren  who  draws  men  to  her  snare,  and  then, 
before  their  arms  can  enfold  her,  allows  them  to  be 
swallowed  up  in  the  morass  over  which  she  has  hov- 
ered. Zelie  had  learnt  the  lesson  of  Owen  Mayne's 
picture,  "The  Chamois  Hunter,"  learnt  it  thoroughly 
and  well. 

She  had  not  been  before  the  public  six  weeks  be- 
fore the  panther  claimed  its  second  victim.  Young 
Lord  Nettleton  shot  himself,  leaving  a  note  in  which 
he  declared  that  he  had  committed  the  mad  act  for 
love  of  Zelie — that  he  had  been  ready  to  marry  her, 
if  that  was  the  only  way  by  which  he  could  win  her — 
but  she  had  steadily  refused  to  grant  him  any  favour 
whatever.  He  could  not  live  without  her,  and  so — 
the  end. 

Of  course,  he  had  been  drinking  hard,  and  going 
the  pace  absurdly — a  young  fool.  Zelie  was  not  to 
blame,  so  everyone  agreed.  On  the  contrary,  it  was 
admitted  that  by  refusing  to  marry  the  heir  to  an  old 
title  she  had  acted  well  and  honourably,  and  was 
worthy  of  praise.  The  poor  boy's  suicide  had  no  effect 
but  to  add  to  her  reputation  and  popularity. 

And  latterly,  as  Lord  Martyn  knew  well,  there  had 
been  a  constant  visitor  at  the  house  in  Knightsbridge 
whose  attentions  should  have  been  bestowed  elsewhere. 
What  had  Sir  Donald  Ransom  to  do  with  Zelie  of 
Montmartre  ?  Sir  Donald,  whose  engagement  to  Lady 
Beatrice  had  long  ago  been  announced,  and  who  would 
have  been  married  to  her  by  now  had  it  not  been  for 
an  unfortunate  family  bereavement.  The  wedding,  in 
consequence,  had  been  postponed  till  the  autumn. 

It  was  this — the  intimacy  which  had  sprung  up 
between  Sir  Donald  and  Zelie — which  was  troubling 
Lord  Martyn  so  much  that  afternoon.  Also,  the  trial 


260  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

of  Bibi  Coupe-vide  was  in  progress — he  had  been  com- 
mitted from  the  police  court  upon  the  capital  charge 
— and  there  was  always  the  fear  that  the  name  of  the 
writer  of  the  letters,  which  Bibi  was  proved  to  have 
used  for  blackmailing  purposes,  might  be  revealed. 
Lord  Martyn  had  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  prevent 
this,  and,  so  far,  with  success.  But  one  could  never 
say  what  might  not  be  brought  out  under  cross-exam- 
ination. And  there  remained  two  letters  still  unac- 
counted for — those  the  absence  of  which  had  thrown 
Aldis  into  such  a  passion  that  he  had  paved  the  way 
for  his  tragic  death. 

The  whole  situation  was  destructive  to  peace  of 
mind,  and  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Lord 
Martyn  should  pace  up  and  down  the  room  restlessly, 
inwardly  cursing  his  own  impotence;  he  who  had  al- 
ways considered  himself  a  strong  man,  careless  of 
the  world,  regarding  it  much  as  a  theatre  with  pup- 
pets that  he  could  force  to  move  for  his  edification 
and  amusement,  now  found  himself  caught  in  the  toils, 
himself  a  puppet,  dangled  at  the  end  of  the  string  of 
destiny. 

"That  she  should  be  threatened — she !"  he  muttered 
over  and  over  again.  "And  it  has  all  been  my  own 
doing.  I  have  cut  a  stick  for  my  own  back,  indeed, 
sharpened  the  knife  that  will  shed  my  heart's  blood. 
And  it  is  through  others  that  the  blow  will  be  struck 
— that  is  the  horror  of  it — they  must  suffer — she  must 
suffer — because  I  imagined  that  I  could  play  with 
the  lives  of  men." 

He  clenched  his  fists,  and  threw  himself  down  into 
an  easy  chair,  then  he  picked  up  a  paper  that  lay 
beside  it,  and  read  over  again  the  account  of  that 
morning's  proceedings  in  court.  He  had  given  his 
evidence  the  day  before,  and  his  presence  was  no 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

longer  necessary.  It  was  a  Friday,  and  the  trial  would 
certainly  be  adjourned  till  the  following  week.  Bibi 
still  strongly  maintained  his  innocence,  but  no  one 
doubted  what  the  result  of  the  case  would  be. 

Lord  Martyn  was  deep  in  his  paper  when  the  door 
of  the  study  was  pushed  open  and  his  name  was  gently 
called  from  the  threshold.  He  looked  up  sharply,  then 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Beatrice!" 

It  was  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer  who  stood  there.  She 
wore  a  smart  afternoon  frock,  a  tightly  fitting  gown 
that  seemed  to  be  moulded  to  her  exquisite  figure, 
and  her  large  hat,  with  its  overhanging  brim,  threw 
her  face  into  shadow.  But  Martyn  could  see  at  once 
how  pale  she  was,  how  troubled.  There  were  little 
lines  about  her  lips,  and  her  lashes  drooped  over 
the  eyes  that  were  usually  so  clear  and  frank  and 
blue. 

"Beatrice,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  He  took  her  hands 
in  his,  felt  that  they  were  cold  despite  the  heat  of  the 
July  day.  Then  he  led  her  into  the  room,  first  closing 
the  door,  and  made  her  sit  down  in  the  chair  which  he 
had  just  vacated. 

"I  had  to  come  to  you,  Uncle  Harry,"  she  mur- 
mured. She  was  sitting  erect,  and  dragging  nervously 
at  her  left-hand  glove.  "They  told  me  you  were  in 
the  study,  and  I  wouldn't  let  them  announce  me.  I 
came  straight  up." 

"Yes?"  he  questioned.  "Is  anything  wrong,  Bea- 
trice? But  I  can  see  there  is.  Oh,  you  poor  white 
child !"  There  was  infinite  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

She  had  drawn  off  her  glove  by  now,  and  she  held 
out  her  slim  hand  straight  before  her.  The  gesture 
was  pathetic,  and  Lord  Martyn  realised  at  once  its 
significance,  for  Lady  Beatrice's  engagement  ring,  the 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

hoop  of  brilliants  that  Sir  Donald  had  presented  to 
her,  no  longer  had  place  upon  her  finger. 

"I  have  taken  it  off,"  she  sighed.  "He  wouldn't 
have  it  back — but  I've  taken  it  off."  Her  fingers 
drooped.  "Even  they  look  wretched,  don't  they?"  she 
said,  with  a  queer  little  laugh.  "Thin  and  hungry  and 
sad,  as  if  they  felt  that  there  was  something  missing." 

"Tell  me  why,  Beatrice."  Lord  Martyn  drew  up  a 
high-backed  chair  and  seated  himself  heavily.  He 
seemed  to  have  aged  all  of  a  sudden.  Looking  at 
him  now,  Beatrice  wondered,  despite  her  grief  for 
herself,  that  she  had  never  before  noticed  the  wrinkles 
that  criss-crossed  on  his  brow. 

She  was  very  fond  of  Uncle  Harry,  as  she  always 
called  him.  He  had  been  good  to  her  ever  since  she 
was  a  mite  of  a  child — he  had  spoilt  her  almost  by 
the  number  of  presents  he  showered  upon  her  in  those 
days.  And  later,  when  she  was  a  little  bigger,  he 
had  always  been  ready  to  devote  his  time  to  her,  unless 
he  happened  to  be  far  away  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world  on  one  of  his  wandering  expeditions;  and,  if 
he  were,  she  was  quite  sure  that  he  would  come  back 
if  she  should  summon  him. 

There  was  little  sympathy  between  her  stepmother 
and  herself.  They  had  no  interests  in  common.  Be- 
sides, the  Countess  of  Albyn  was  of  too  frivolous  a 
disposition  to  like  the  role  of  chaperon;  she  had  been 
only  too  glad  to  welcome  Sir  Donald  as  a  deliverer 
from  an  irksome  charge.  It  was  not  to  her  step- 
mother that  Beatrice  hurried  for  comfort — it  was  to 
her  "Uncle"  Harry. 

"Tell  me,  dear,"  he  said  gently,  taking  her  cold 
hand  in  his,  "is  it — what  we  feared?" 

It  had  been  impossible  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  of 
the  misuse  of  her  letters  to  Stephen  Aldis.  The  revela- 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  263 

tion  might  have  been  made  in  court,  and  she  had  to  be 
prepared.  The  poor  girl  trembled  under  the  blow, 
for  she  had  imagined  the  whole  silly  business  long 
ago  dead  and  forgotten.  The  letters  had  been  written 
when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child — almost  as  a 
joke — she  and  a  school  friend  had  plotted  it  together. 

She  would  have  made  full  confession  to  her  fiance, 
but  Lady  Albyn  begged  her  not  to.  "There's  every 
chance  that  your  name  is  never  mentioned,"  her  lady- 
ship urged,  "so  why  give  yourself  away?  Do  you 
want  to  appear  a  silly  little  goose  in  Donald's  eyes? 
Besides,  there's  no  knowing — he  might  take  it  badly." 

So  Beatrice  had  been  silent,  and  now  she  regretted 
her  silence. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  weary  little  nod  of  her 
head,  "it's  that — mainly.  Oh !  it's  not  been  mentioned 
in  court,  and  Sir  Laurence  says  it  won't  be.  But  the 
two  other  letters,  Uncle  Harry — the  missing  ones,  you 
know — they  were  brought  to  Donald.  He  had  to  buy 
them,  or  else — or  else " 

She  broke  off  with  a  sob,  and  hid  her  head  against 
the  man's  shoulder.  She  could  not  see  how  his  face 
was  working,  how  deeply  moved  he  was. 

"Or  else  they  would  have  been  published,"  she  fal- 
tered. "That  was  the  threat.  I  believe  Donald  paid 
the  man  what  he  asked,  and  then  thrashed  him  well." 
There  was  a  touch  of  pride  in  her  tone.  "He  was 
angry — oh !  very,  very  angry — this  happened  last  night 
— it  wasn't  so  much  because  I  had  written  the  letters, 
but  because  I  had  never  told  him  about  it.  And  then 
I  got  angry,  too,  Uncle  Harry — I — I've  got  reason 
to — and  I  said  foolish  things — you  know  about  whom. 
He  went  very  white,  and  asked  if  I  didn't  trust  him. 
I  don't  know  how  I  answered,  but — but  it  appears  that 
he  didn't  mean  to  come  and  stay  with  us  at  Henley — 


as  he  had  arranged,  you  know — he  has  decided  to  go  to 
America  after  the  Cowes  week — she  is  going  to  Amer- 
ica, so  that's  why.  I  begged  him  not  to  go — if  he  loved 
me,  but  he  would  not  give  way — you  see  he  was  angry, 
so  I  took  off  my  ring  and  asked  him  to  take  it  back. 
He  took  it,  Uncle  Harry,  and  flung  out  of  the  house, 
but  to-day  he  came  back  and  wanted  to  put  it  on  my 
finger  again."  She  paused  and  made  little  dabs  at 
her  eyes  with  a  tiny  lace  pocket  handkerchief  rolled  up 
into  a  ball. 

"And  you  did  not  allow  him  to  ?  Why,  Beatrice  ?" 
"Because  he  would  not  give  up  going  to  America," 
she  answered,  with  some  defiance.  "Oh!  I  know — 
I  know — how  he  has  been  running  after  that  creature 
— that  Zelie — who  is  more  like  a  venomous  snake  than 
a  woman.  He  makes  a  pretence  of  business,  but  it 
is  only  to  follow  her.  She  has  caught  him  in  her 
snare,  just  as  she  caught  that  poor,  unhappy  Nettleton 
boy.  And  she  will  only  throw  him  over  when  she 
has  broken  him.  She  is  a  worker  of  evil.  She  has 
no  soul !" 

"That  is  true,  and  perhaps  it  is  Donald's  safeguard," 
replied  Lord  Martyn,  tugging  at  his  beard  with  his 
disengaged  hand.  "She  has  no  love  to  bestow  upon 
any  but  herself.  He  is  a  strong  man,  and  he  will 
wrestle  with  her — if  it  is  true  that  she  has  really  at- 
tracted him  from  you.  But  I  tell  you,  Beatrice,  child, 
that  Zelie,  in  her  way,  is  stronger  than  he,  and  he 
will  not  get  the  better  of  her.  Then  he  will  tire.  He 
will  recognise  his  folly.  He  loves  you  really.  I'd 
take  my  oath  to  that — and  this  affair  with  Zelie  is 
only  a  mad  infatuation.  She  is  a  witch,  and  seems 
to  mesmerise  men — they  are  not  exactly  responsible. 
That's  how  it  is  with  Donald." 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  265 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  uncle?"  Beatrice 
asked,  lifting  a  plaintive  face. 

"Be  patient,"  he  replied.  "Don't  be  too  hard  upon 
him.  He  will  come  back  to  you.  There  is  only  one 
fear,  and  that" — he  waved  his  large,  strong  hand,  as 
if  to  brush  the  thought  away — "that  is  no  more  than 
a  shadow." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Beatrice  anxiously. 

"You  said  just  now  that  Zelie  has  no  soul,"  he  said 
slowly.  "It  is  true.  But  woebetide  the  man — Don- 
ald, or  another — who  should  wake  the  soul  within  her. 
And  woebetide  Zelie  herself — for  there  is  no  room 
in  her  breast  for  a  new-born  soul !" 

A  silence  fell.  Lady  Beatrice  was  twisting  one  of 
the  buttons  of  her  chair  round  and  round,  uncon- 
sciously loosening  it.  Suddenly  it  broke  off  with  a  snap. 

"He  wasn't  really  so  very  angry  with  me — about 
the  letters,"  she  confessed.  "I  think — I'm  sure — he 
understood.  It  was  I  who  was  jealous.  I  who  made 
the  scene.  But  I  love  him  so — I  love  him  so — and  I 
can't  share  his  love  with  another!  Oh!  if  he  would 
only  not  go  to  America — if  he  were  freed  from  this 
horrible  infatuation !  For  if  he  didn't  see  her  so  often 
he  would  forget;  he  would  understand  that  a  pure 
love  is  the  best.  I  should  soon  win  him  back  if  I  had 
him  all  to  myself." 

She  was  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  her  hands 
clasped  about  her  knees.  "Uncle  Harry,"  she  mur- 
mured, "if  I  lose  Donald,  lose  him  really,  I  shan't  want 
to  live  any  more !  It  would  kill  me !" 

She  spoke  with  a  strange  intensity.  She  was  hold- 
ing herself  rigidly,  but  after  a  moment  her  muscles 
seemed  to  relax,  and  she  fell  back  upon  the  arm  which 
he  had  stretched  out  to  support  her,  like  a  frail  blos- 
som chilled  by  an  untimely  frost. 


266  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"It  would  kill  me !"  she  repeated. 

"Donald  shall  come  back  to  you,"  Lord  Martyn 
asserted  boldly.  "Be  of  good  cheer,  Beattie,  child. 
He  loves  you  with  all  that  is  good  in  him — and  there 
is  far  more  good  in  him  than  bad.  Yes,  I'll  answer 
for  it.  He  shall  be  at  your  knees,  asking  forgiveness, 
before  the  month  is  out." 

He  stood  up,  and  lifted  his  clenched  fists  high  above 
his  head.  It  was  as  though  he  were  taking  an  oath. 

"As  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven,"  he  exclaimed  pas- 
sionately, "Zelie  shall  not  stand  between  you  and  the 
man  you  love !  I  will  sweep  her  from  your  path — yes 
— I — I !  For  I  know  what  I  have  to  do,  and  it  is  not 
yet  too  late !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

EVE  DE  FREYNE  was  absent  from  London  on  the  busi- 
ness of  the  paper  for  which  she  worked,  and  for 
the  last  week  Zelie  had  had  the  little  house  in  Knights- 
bridge  to  herself.  On  the  whole,  she  rather  preferred 
this,  though  the  presence  of  her  friend  did  not  in  the 
smallest  degree  interfere  with  her  independence. 

She  had  been  summoned  as  a  witness  at  the  trial  of 
Bibi  Coupe-vide,  and  her  appearance  in  the  box  had 
caused  all  the  sensation  she  could  have  wished.  The 
court,  of  course,  was  crowded,  and  she  had  skilfully 
played  to  the  gallery  on  her  own  behalf.  She  under- 
stood that  all  the  sordid  details  that  might  be  dragged 
into  the  light  of  day — her  relations  with  Bibi,  for  in- 
stance— must  either  damage  her  materially  or  add  to 
the  notoriety  which  she  had  already  gained — a  great 
deal  depended  upon  her  own  behaviour.  She  passed 
triumphantly  through  the  ordeal. 

Bibi  had  not  given  her  away.  He  had  revealed  no 
word  of  the  plot  against  Owen  Mayne  into  which  she 
had  dragged  him.  Probably  he  realised  that  even 
should  this  be  proved  it  would  not  help  him  at  all,  he 
who  had  apparently  been  caught  red-handed.  On  the 
contrary,  it  might  have  told  against  him,  as  proof  of 
the  lightness  in  which  he  held  human  life.  For  Zelie 
knew  the  character  of  the  .man  well  enough  to  be  quite 
sure  that  he  would  not  hesitate  to  betray  her  if  thereby 
he  should  be  the  gainer. 

There  was  another  reason,  too,  why  he  held  his 
267 


268  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

tongue.  Zelie  had  once  contrived  to  see  him  while 
in  prison,  and  had  exercised  her  blandishments  over 
him  to  her  own  advantage.  He  was  always  her  Bibi 
adore,  and  she  was  working  to  make  money  for  his 
sake,  and  one  day — when  he  was  free  once  more — they 
would  return  to  Paris,  and  the  good  time  would  begin 
for  them  both. 

Bibi  protested  his  innocence  of  the  crime — even  to 
her.  She  professed  to  believe  him,  though  she  had 
no  doubt  whatever  that  it  was  he  who  had  struck  the 
blow — by  mistake.  But  since  he  was  innocent  he 
would  be  acquitted,  she  maintained,  and  then  all  would 
be  well.  So  she  left  Bibi  buoyed  up  with  hope,  and 
in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  desperation  of  hi?  plight. 

For  herself,  she  did  not  care  one  way  or  the  other 
whether  he  was  acquitted  or  condemned,  so  long  as 
he  did  not  compromise  her.  Perhaps  of  the  two  she 
would  have  preferred  him  hanged — it  would  save  her 
trouble  in  future. 

The  defence  sought  to  disprove  that  there  had  been 
any  quarrel  between  the  two  men  with  regard  to  the 
incriminating  letters,  also  that  Bibi  had  manifested 
any  jealousy  of  Stephen  Aldis.  It  was  concerning 
these  matters  that  Zelie  was  questioned.  Her  answers 
were  non-committal,  and  of  very  little  service  to  the 
prisoner,  who  sat  in  the  dock,  gazing  at  her  with  hun- 
gry eyes,  firmly  believing,  in  his  stupidity  and  igno- 
rance, that  when  Zelie  had  spoken  there  would  be  an 
end  to  the  whole  matter. 

Zelie  was  as  much  as  home  in  the  witness-box  as 
in  the  theatre.  The  court  was  thronged  with  fash- 
ionably dressed  men  and  women,  and  she  was  the 
centre  of  attraction.  The  wretched  prisoner  was  over- 
looked altogether. 

Yes,  it  was  at  her  invitation  that  Bibi  Coupe-vide 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  £69 

had  spent  that  night  at  Chamney  Castle.  She  desired 
his  presence  in  order  that  her  dancing  should  be  the 
greater  success.  They  had  danced  together  in  Paris, 
and  the  public  had  approved.  She  had  no  knowledge 
as  to  the  reason  of  his  appearance  at  Chamney  in  the 
first  instance — he  had  certainly  not  followed  her.  She 
did  not  even  know  that  he  was  in  England.  She  spoke 
of  Bibi  as  if  he  had  never  been  anything  to  her  but 
a  companion  of  the  footlights — one  in  whom  her  only 
interest  was  that  of  a  somewhat  disdainful  compas- 
sion. No  direct  question  about  her  relations  with  the 
prisoner  was  put  to  her — had  it  been  she  would  doubt- 
less have  lied. 

She  returned  home  that  afternoon  unruffled  by  her 
experiences  in  court,  pleased,  if  anything,  by  the  sensa- 
tion she  had  caused,  and  by  the  prospect  of  seeing 
her  portrait  in  the  illustrated  papers  on  the  following 
morning.  The  servant  told  her  that  a  gentleman  wished 
to  see  her,  and  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 

"What  name  did  he  give?"  she  asked  carelessly. 
The  maid  was  a  new  one,  and  not  yet  accustomed 
to  her  ways.  Zelie  was  not  at  home  to  every  chance 
caller. 

"He  would  not  give  his  name,"  answered  the  girl. 
"He  said  that  madam  would  see  him,  and  that  he 
would  wait." 

ZelFe  frowned,  and  passed  on.  She  would  scold  the 
maid  another  time.  Visitors  must  not  be  admitted  in 
this  haphazard  fashion.  Doubtless,  however,  it  was 
a  friend  who  wished  to"  give  her  a  pleasant  surprise. 
She  rather  expected  a  call  from  a  certain  new  admirer 
with  whom  she  had  supped  the  other  night. 

She  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  found  herself 
confronted  by  Owen  Mayne.  Immediately  she  lost  her 
temper. 


270  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

"You!"  she  exclaimed  angrily,  "you!  Have  I  not 
forbidden  you  to  come  to  my  house?  That  girl  is  a 
fool  to  have  admitted  you !  I  shall  send  her  packing !" 

"Zelie!"  He  stood  quite  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  He  appeared  a  broken  man.  His  face  was  thin 
and  sallow,  his  eye  sunken  and  hungry.  His  clothes 
— well  cut,  as  always — were  dusty  and  uncared  for. 
He  had  quite  lost  the  smart  appearance  that  had  been 
wont  to  characterise  him.  "Zelie — I  couldn't  keep 
away.  My  God!  I've  tried — since  you  were  so  cruel 
to  me  that  day.  I  vowed  that  you  were  not  a  woman, 
but  a  devil  in  woman's  flesh.  But  you  are  my  wife, 
you  know — my  wife !" 

"Cruel  to  you?"  she  retorted.  "What  did  you  ex- 
pect? After  telling  me  a  host  of  pretty  stories  about 
the  fortune  that  was  bound  to  be  yours,  you  come 
to  me  without  a  penny  in  your  pocket,  almost  without 
a  coat  to  your  back.  Yes,  things  had  gone  wrong, 
you  said,  and  the  little  plaster  saint  was  going  to 
have  every  penny  of  the  money,  after  all.  But  we 
could  be  happy  all  the  same — you  and  I — because  we 
loved!"  Her  tone  was  charged  with  infinite  scorn. 
"So  would  I  come  away  with  you  at  once,  and  we 
would  share  a  garret  somewhere,  and  you  would  paint, 
while  I — mon  Dieu! — I  might  twiddle  my  thumbs! 
For  I  must  leave  the  stage — that  was  part  of  the  pro- 
gramme. Monsieur  was  jealous !  Monsieur  must  have 
me  all  to  himself  in  the  garret,  with  nothing  a  year 
to  live  upon !" 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  tapping  the  floor  viciously 
with  the  heel  of  her  little  boot,  and  laughing — a  laugh 
that  was  like  the  threatening  snarl  of  a  wild  beast. 

The  man  drew  himself  up  wearily.  He  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  who  had  suffered  much. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  271 

"I  was  a  fool,"  he  said  in  low,  intense  tones.  "I 
admit  it.  But — but  I  thought  you  cared,  Zelie.  That 
was  my  folly — to  think  that  you  had  one  spark  of 
humanity  in  you  and  that  it  was  for  me.  I  loved  you 
because  of  your  very  dissimilarity  to  the  rest  of  the 
world — because  you  are  like  a  creature  fashioned  out 
of  the  mists  of  time — without  heart,  or  warm  blood, 
or  soul — a  siren,  a  witch — I  loved  you  for  all  this,  and 
flattered  myself  that  I,  too — with  you — could  be  out- 
side the  world.  Those  weeks  I  spent  at  Selwood 
Manor  were  a  torture  to  me,  and  I  only  lived  in  the 
thought  that  one  day  you  and  I  would  be  reunited.  I 
degraded  myself — played  the  blackguard's  part — but  it 
was  for  your  sake,  so  I  didn't  care.  And  then,  when 
things  went  wrong,  I  could  stand  it  no  more.  I  might 
have  kept  up  the  farce — have  found  some  other  way 
of  carrying  the  cheat  to  completion — have  lowered  my- 
self still  more.  But  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  hungered  and 
thirsted  for  your  kisses.  I  saw  your  red,  alluring  lips 
by  day  and  night.  They  called  me.  I  threw  up  every- 
thing and  answered  the  call." 

"You'd  better  have  stayed  and  married  your  pink 
and  white  doll,"  retorted  Zelie,  removing  one  by  one 
the  pins  from  her  hat  with  nonchalant  fingers.  "I 
told  you  I'd  never  have  interfered  with  you,  husband 
and  wife  though  we  may  be.  I  advised  you  to  go  back 
to  her.  I  thought  you  had.  Why  didn't  you?" 

Owen  shuddered.  "Zelie — I  love  you!  You  are 
mine,  before  God  and  the  world!  As  for  Lavender 
Percivale — may  her  lips  never  again  be  defiled  by 
kisses  of  mine.  I  left  you  that  day — when  I  realised 
that  you  wanted  none  of  me — in  a  passion  of  rage  and 
despair.  I  tried  to  forget.  I  couldn't.  I  have  been 
trying  to  forget  through  all  these  weeks.  I  cannot. 
I  have  been  in  hell.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  have  lived. 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

I  hardly  know  myself.  I  have  starved — because  I  had 
no  appetite  for  food.  I  have  drunk  myself  besotted 
night  after  night,  but  it  has  not  brought  forgetfulness. 
I  have  taken  drugs,  but  my  dreams — oh!  God!  My 
dreams !" 

He  shivered,  and  pressed  his  elbows  against  his 
chest.  "Look  at  me!"  he  said.  "It  is  to  this  I  have 
come — because  I  love  you !" 

Zelie  had  taken  off  her  hat  by  now,  and  she  laid  it 
down  on  a  sofa  close  beside  her.  She  still  held  the 
long,  sharp  pins  in  one  hand,  allowing  them  to  roll  to 
and  fro  between  her  palm  and  her  fingers. 

She  threw  a  disdainful  glance  at  Owen  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  "I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said,  "if  you 
are  a  fool.  Either  you  should  have  kept  your  promise 
to  me,  and  come  with  money  in  your  pocket,  or  you 
should  have  kept  away.  For  myself,  I  would  sooner 
the^  latter.  I  do  not  need  you." 

"But  I  need  you,"  he  interrupted,  and  there  were 
strange  fires  that  burned  in  his  hollow  eyes.  "Zelie, 
that  is  what  I  have  come  to  tell  you.  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  I  won't  go  back  to  my  hell — alone !  You 
are  my  wife " 

Zelie  had  sprung  to  her  feet.  She  was  quivering 
with  rage.  "You  dare  to  threaten  me?"  she  cried. 
She  pointed  imperiously  to  the  door.  "Begone!"  she 
commanded.  "Out  of  my  sight  at  once !  I  hate  you — 
I  hate  you!" 

The  pins  fell  clattering  from  her  hand  to  the  floor, 
all  save  one,  the  longest  and  sharpest.  She  threatened 
him  with  it. 

"Go !"  she  panted.  Then  she  broke  forth  into  a  flood 
of  low  Montmartre  expletives,  words  such  as  had  not 
passed  her  lips  for  months.  She  stood  there,  a  fury, 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  273 

defiant,  uncontrolled.  Her  breast  was  heaving,  her 
eyes  were  like  white-hot  steel. 

"You  may  kill  me,  if  you  like,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
mind — if  it's  at  your  hand.  But  I  claim  you,  Zelie, 
claim  you  as  my  wife !" 

He  opened  his  arms  and  advanced  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

"I  CAN'T  live  without  you,  Zelie — I  can't!"  Owen 
Mayne  advanced  blindly,  his  arms  extended.  His  feet 
dragged,  and  he  swayed  a  little  from  side  to  side.  He 
had  lost  all  dignity,  all  strength.  He  was  like  a 
drunken  man,  without  reasoning  power,  obsessed  by 
one  all-absorbing  desire. 

"And  I  hate  you!"  Zelie  stood  erect,  not  even 
deigning  to  retreat  before  him.  Her  bosom  was  heav- 
ing, and  her  eyes  flashed  in  infinite  scorn.  And,  in- 
deed, the  man  presented  a  pitiable  spectacle  of  moral 
and  physical  degeneration. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  did  not  hear  her.  For  the  mo- 
ment all  recollection  of  those  weeks  of  agony,  during 
which  with  drink  and  drugs  he  had  been  blighting  his 
body  and  soul,  was  swept  away.  He  saw  only  Zelie — 
Zelie  in  the  flesh,  not  a  shadow,  a  form  without  sub- 
stance, such  as  his  dreams  had  conjured  up. 

He  had  forgotten — utterly  forgotten — how  he  had 
come  to  her  immediately  after  his  flight  from  Selwood 
Manor,  believing  that  she  would  welcome  him  with 
open  arms,  and  how  she  had  discarded  him  with  mock- 
ing disdain — he  who  had  sinned  for  her,  degraded  him- 
self to  the  lowest  depth  of  infamy — how  she  had  bidden 
him  return  whence  he  came,  as  she  had  no  further 
use  for  him. 

At  that  a  violent  rage  had  surged  in  his  breast,  and 
he  had  seen  Zelie  for  what  she  was.  He  had  swung 
away  from  the  house,  her  derisive  laughter  ringing  in 

274 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  275 

his  ears,  vowing  that  she  had  murdered  love  and 
crushed  the  passion  that  he  had  borne  for  her  to  ex- 
tinction. Might  he  never  set  eyes  upon  her  more! 
Wife  of  his  though  she  was,  he  consigned  her  body  to 
defilement,  her  soul  to  the  nethermost  hell. 

He  had  made  an  effort  after  that  to  return  to  the 
old  life.  Paris  saw  him  once  more — he  strove  to  paint. 
He  succeeded  in  earning  just  enough  to  keep  himself 
alive  and  to  pay  for  the  poison  with  which,  almost  at 
once,  he  sought  to  banish  memory  and  to  lay  the 
ghosts  that  haunted  him.  It  was  all  in  vain.  The 
coils  of  the  snake  were  about  his  limbs,  the  claws  of 
the  panther  rent  his  breast,  the  beak  of  the  vulture 
was  in  his  heart.  The  siren  who  was  now  snake,  now 
panther,  now  bird  of  prey,  demanded  his  soul,  while 
the  woman  who  was  the  earthly  representative  of  that 
siren  mocked  and  rejected  him. 

It  came  to  his  ears  that  Robin  had  arrived  in  Paris 
in  search  of  him.  Owen  sold  at  ruinous  sacrifice  the 
few  sketches  and  pictures  that  remained  to  him — he 
had  already  disposed  of  the  furniture  and  effects  of 
his  studio -and  flat — and  returned  to  London,  where 
he  lost  himself  in  the  vortex.  Robin  sought  him  in 
vain. 

His  funds,  such  as  they  were,  were  soon  exhausted. 
He  tried  to  paint — if  only  to  earn  a  pound  or  two — 
but  found  that  his  hand  had  lost  its  cunning.  He 
sank  lower  and  lower.  His  strength  and  health  gave 
way.  Time  after  time  he  set  out  to  find  Zelie,  but 
caught  sight  of  himself — a  sorry  figure — in  some  mir- 
ror behind  a  shop  window,  and  then  slunk  back  to  his 
miserable  apartment.  He  was  ashamed. 

But  by  degrees  even  shame  lost  its  restraining  influ- 
ence. Nothing  remained  but  a  great  hunger  for  the 
touch  of  Zelie's  hands,  a  maddening  thirst  for  the 


276  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

kisses  of  her  lips — those  kisses  that  were  his  by  right. 
And  his  drug-begotten  dreams  came  nightly  to  add 
to  his  frenzy.  He  haunted  the  stage  door  of  the  Star 
Theatre.  Once,  in  coming  out  and  passing  to  her 
brougham,  Zelie  had  actually  brushed  against  him; 
her  cavalier,  a  tall,  soldierly  man,  had  pushed  Owen 
roughly  aside.  There  might  have  been  a  scene,  but 
Owen  had  become  suddenly  conscious  of  his  own 
degradation.  He  slunk  away,  and  as  the  brougham 
passed  him  by  broke  down  and  wept  weak  tears.  He 
knew  then  that  his  day  was  done. 

The  intensity  of  his  passion  drove  him  at  last  to 
Zelie's  house.  He  had  deprived  himself  of  his  drug 
the  night  before — by  a  superhuman  effort — imagining 
that  thereby  his  head  would  be  clearer.  The  only  re- 
sult was  that  he  felt  miserably  weak  and  ill.  Never- 
theless, he  dressed  himself  with  some  care  for  his  ap- 
pearance, and  set  out.  He  had  eaten  nothing,  had  no 
desire  for  food.  On  the  way  he  had  been  compelled 
to  fortify  himself  with  brandy,  stopping  at  a  public- 
house  for  the  purpose.  It  was  in  this  state  that  he 
had  been  admitted  to  Zelie's  presence. 

But  all  this  was  forgotten  now  as  he  staggered  for- 
ward, imagining  that  he  was  about  to  take  his  wife 
in  his  arms,  to  slake  his  thirst  at  her  lips.  His  senses 
reeled,  and  quite  suddenly  the  recollection  of  her  harsh 
words  forsook  his  brain.  He  was  deaf  to  her  vitupera- 
tion, to  her  declaration  of  hatred.  There  was  a  mist 
before  his  eyes,  and  he  could  not  see  the  loathing  that 
her  face  expressed;  he  was  blind  to  the  menace  of 
her  uplifted  hand — the  hand  that  was  armed  with  the 
long,  sharp  pin. 

His  face  was  close  to  hers,  she  could  feel  his  breath, 
breath  that  sickened  her  with  its  reek  of  brandy,  upon 
her  cheek.  Zelie  uttered  a  scream,  not  of  fear,  but  of 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  277 

hatred  and  disgust,  and  then  she  struck  at  that  face, 
shortening  the  weapon  in  her  hand,  stabbing  with  it, 
viciously,  cruelly,  careless  of  consequences,  only — in 
her  rage — eager  to  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

It  was  her  very  fury  that  saved  Owen  from  serious 
harm.  Had  she  been  less  frenzied  with  passion  she 
might  have  aimed  deliberately  at  one  of  his  eyes.  As 
it  was,  the  hatpin  wounded  his  cheek,  his  lip,  his  fore- 
head— and  then  broke. 

"There — there — there!"  Zelie  screeched  out  the 
word  each  time  she  struck.  The  foulest  insults  fell 
from  her  tongue.  Her  face  was  contorted  with  rage — 
hideous — for  the  moment  every  trace  of  her  weird 
charm  had  deserted  her. 

Owen  fell  back — dazed — foolishly  astounded — con- 
scious of  sharp  pain.  Blood  was  trickling  from  his 
forehead  into  one  of  his  eyes,  blinding  it.  He  lifted 
his  hands  to  his  face,  and  then  gazed  at  them  vacantly, 
blinking,  wondering  why  they  were  smeared  with  red. 

"Zelie,"  he  muttered,  "what  is  it?  What  have  you 
done  to  me  ?" 

"I  wish  I'd  killed  you,"  she  panted.  She  was  still 
holding  the  head  of  the  broken  hatpin,  and  now  she 
threw  it  away  with  an  impatient  jerk. 

And  then — quite  suddenly — it  all  came  back  to  him, 
the  sin  that  he  had  sinned  for  this  woman's  sake,  the 
trouble  that  he  had  wrought — the  ignominy  and  shame 
— what  he  had  been,  and  what  he  was. 

But  the  manhood  had  gone  out  of  him,  the  strength 
of  will,  the  power  to  mock  at  himself  and  at  the  world. 
The  vampire  of  his  passion  had  sucked  his  very  life- 
blood  ;  he  had  offered  up  his  vitality  as  a  sacrifice  upon 
the  altar  of  the  siren.  Owen  Mayne  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  tragedy  of  his  own  existence. 

He  had  poisoned  himself  with  deadly  drugs ;  he  had 


278  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

neglected  to  nourish  his  body;  he  had  scorched  and 
burnt  his  brain  till  it  was  no  better  than  white  ash; 
he  had  trampled  pride  under  his  feet;  he  was  mean, 
despicable,  unspeakably  vile. 

So  he  saw  himself  at  that  moment.  There  was  a 
mirror  upon  the  wall  in  front  of  him,  a  mirror  in  a 
quaint  and  ornate  frame  of  ebony — one  of  Eve  de 
Freyne's  curiosities.  Fantastic  faces,  grotesques,  were 
carved  on  either  side,  and  at  the  top  and  bottom,  but 
none  of  them  could  equal  in  repulsive  ugliness  the 
face,  blood-stained,  contorted,  hideous,  that  Owen  saw 
reflected  in  the  mirror  itself.  Could  it,  indeed,  be 
his  own?  Why,  it  might  have  depicted  all  the  sin  of 
all  the  world.  It  was  scarcely  human.  Yet  he  had 
been  a  man — once. 

He  sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  Great  tears,  that  were  reddened  with  his  blood, 
welled  between  his  fingers.  His  whole  body  shook 
and  quivered.  Choking  sobs  broke  in  his  throat.  He 
wept  for  the  loss  of  all  that  had  enabled  him  to  hold 
up  his  head  among  his  fellows — his  pride,  his  self- 
respect,  his  manhood.  And  all  the  while  the  name  of 
his  destroyer,  she  for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  these 
things,  was  on  his  lips. 

"Zelie!  Zelie!"  He  rocked  himself  to  and  fro,  re- 
peating the  word  in  a  monotonous  wail. 

Zelie  regarded  him  from  under  her  curling  lashes, 
and  she  moistened  her  dry  lips  with  her  tongue;  she 
had  the  aspect  of  a  beast  of  prey  who  has  tasted  blood 
and  who  thirsts  for  more. 

How  she  loathed  the  sight  of  that  abject  figure, 
rocking  to  and  fro  in  its  chair !  Of  all  things  she  de- 
tested weakness.  She  quite  forgot  that  it  was  in  ad- 
miration of  his  strength,  his  defiance  of  danger,  that 
she  had  given  herself  to  Owen  Mayne.  Even  now, 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  279 

had  he  thrown  himself  upon  her,  crushed  her  slim 
body  with  his  powerful  hands — or,  rather,  hands  that 
had  been  powerful  once — had  he  beaten  her,  kicked 
her  as  she  lay  at  his  feet,  she  would  have  understood, 
for  the  primitive  instinct  was  still  strong  in  her,  and 
to  her  mind  this  was  the  way  of  a  man  with  the  woman 
he  loved.  Bibi  Coupe-vide  would  have  dealt  thus  with 
her — Bibi,  who  had  not  a  tithe  of  Owen's  physical 
strength. 

"Zelie,  I  am  your  husband.  I  could  proclaim  it  to 
the  world !"  His  hands  had  fallen  to  his  sides,  and  he 
was  staring  up  at  her  with  his  bloodshot  eyes.  Then 
he  muttered,  half  to  himself:  "Why  not — why  not?" 

This  was  the  danger,  and  Zelie  realised  it.  That 
accursed  marriage!  How  often  she  had  laughed  to 
think  that  she  had  desired  the  death  of  her  husband — 
plotted  for  it — not  because  he  was  her  husband,  but 
because  she  imagined  that  he  had  deceived  her,  be- 
cause her  fierce  jealousy  had  been  aroused.  It  was 
another  feeling  that  animated  her  now.  This  wreck 
of  humanity — this  pauper — could  go  forth  and  pro- 
claim that  he  had  a  right  over  her — that  she  was  his 
wife ! 

How  could  she  sweep  him  from  her  path?  She 
ground  her  little,  sharp  teeth  together  and  clenched 
her  fists.  Then  she  told  herself  that  she  would  find  a 
way  if  only  he  could  be  silenced  for  the  time  being. 
That  was  the  essential  point. 

Then  she  remembered  how  she  had  dealt  with  Bibi. 
Promises  are  easy  to  speak,  and  men  are  fools  where 
women  are  concerned.  Owen  must  be  conciliated  since 
he  had  this  weapon  in  his  hand  and  might  use  it.  It 
was  a  pity  that  she  had  lost  her  temper  and  struck 
him. 

Her  task  proved  easier  than  she  had  anticipated,  and 


280  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

it  was  Owen  himself  who  gave  her  the  opening  she 
desired. 

Suddenly  he  dropped  from  his  chair  upon  his  knees, 
and  trailed  across  the  floor  till  he  reached  her  side, 
when  he  clutched  at  her  skirt,  bowing  his  head  almost 
to  the  ground,  hiding  his  face  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 
He  was  ashamed  of  his  scars,  of  his  degradation,  of 
his  self-abasement,  of  what  he  had  seen  in  the  mirror. 

"Zelie,"  he  moaned,  "it  isn't  true  that  you  hate  me — 
tell  me  that  it  isn't  true.  You  were  angry,  and  it  is 
in  your  nature  to  be  quick-tempered.  Why,  I  remem- 
ber, even  in  Paris,  months  and  months  ago,  when  we 
were  happy,  you  once  threatened  me  with  a  knife, 
and  you  might  have  used  it,  too,  only  I  soothed  you 
with  a  kiss,  a  fierce  kiss  that  bit  the  flesh  as  keenly 
as  any  knife.  Say  that  you  were  angry,  Zelie,  and 
that  you  don't  hate  me.  I'll  do  anything  you  like.  I'll 
go  away  until  you  call  me.  I  know  that  I'm  a  despic- 
able object  now — that  I've  been  playing  the  fool  with 
my  life.  But  it  isn't  too  late,  if  you'll  give  me  hope. 
I'll  give  up  the  drugs,  the  drink,  everything  that  has 
been  playing  the  devil  with  me.  I'll  be  a  man  again. 
I'll  work — I  will,  I  swear  it !  Only  say  that  you  want 
me  to,  Zelie — that  you  care !" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  head. 
He  had  drawn  himself  up  as  he  poured  out  his  suppli- 
cation, so  that  she  could  easily  do  so. 

"Get  up,  mon  ami,"  she  said,  forcing  herself  to  speak 
gently.  "It's  true,  I  was  angry.  I  am  sorry  I  struck 
you.  Forgive  me." 

She  allowed  him  to  grasp  her  hand  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  She  knew  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  dictate 
any  terms  she  pleased.  Soft  words — why  had  she  not 
realised  at  once  how  much  more  potent  they  may  be 
than  blows  ?  The  panther  had  not  yet  learnt  to  sheathe 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  281 

its  claws  till  the  right  moment  to  strike  presented  itself. 
Zelie  was  gaining  wisdom,  but  the  primitive  instinct 
was  still  strong  within  her. 

Owen  stood  before  her  with  bowed  head,  but  his 
heart  beat  wildly  within  his  breast.  What  did  the 
wounds  upon  his  face  matter  now  ?  Zelie  was  his,  and 
he  loved  her  none  the  less  because  she  had  inflicted 
them.  It  was  this  very  savagery  in  her  which  had 
charmed  him  from  the  first ;  his  brain  had  created  her, 
and  she  had  sprung  to  life — vicious,  cruel,  alluring, 
the  realisation  of  a  fantastic  dream. 

Zelie  dictated  her  terms.  They  had  as  their  object 
the  immediate  ridding  herself  of  his  presence  and  the 
assurance  that  the  relationship  between  Owen  and  her- 
self should  not  be  revealed.  She  did  not  mind  how 
many  promises  she  made  for  the  future — the  future 
would  take  care  of  itself.  It  was  more  than  likely 
that  Owen  would  drink  and  drug  himself  to  death. 

She  must  bring  her  London  season  to  a  close — she 
must  pay  her  promised  visit  to  America — the  provinces 
were  clamouring  for  her.  Till  the  end  of  the  year 
at  least  she  must  have  complete  independence.  Then 
she  would  return  to  Paris,  and  Owen  should  join  her. 
She  would  be  tired  of  fame  by  that  time,  and  would 
crave  for  a  return  to  the  old  Bohemian  life.  Together 
they  would  begin  all  over  again.  It  would  be  delight- 
ful. Owen  should  paint  his  "Chamois  Hunter"  pic- 
ture afresh.  It  would  make  him  famous,  for  the  world 
would  know  that  she,  Zelie,  had  been  his  model. 

Just  such  promises  she  had  made  glibly  to  Bibi 
Coupe- vide — and  with  just  as  much  intention  of  carry- 
ing them  into  effect. 

"And  in  the  meanwhile  you  may  see  me  at  the  thea- 
tre," she  said;  "not  here — and  not  too  often.  I've 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

no  wish  that  anyone  should  suspect.  You  must  have 
patience." 

He  promised  that  he  would.  He  vowed  that  he 
would  work,  that  he  would  raise  himself  from  the 
slough  into  which  he  had  sunk — that  he  would  give 
up  the  poison  which  had  brought  him  so  low — any- 
thing, if  it  was  to  win  Zelie  in  the  end. 

Zelie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  did  not  care 
what  he  did.  She  only  wanted  him  to  go.  There 
was  another  visitor  who  might  arrive  at  any  minute 
— Sir  Donald,  in  point  of  fact — and  how  could  she 
receive  him  without  tidying  her  hair  and  generally 
attending  to  her  appearance,  ruffled  as  she  was  after 
this  troublesome  interview  with  Owen? 

And  Owen  wanted  to  kiss  her — as  a  ratification  of 
their  treaty.  She  laughed,  and  pointed  satirically  to 
his  reflection  in  the  mirror.  "Would  you  have  me 
kiss  you  now?"  she  asked. 

This  recalled  him  to  his  senses,  arousing  him  once 
more  to  a  knowledge  of  his  shame.  The  scratches 
upon  his  face  had  ceased  to  bleed.  He  crossed  to  the 
mirror  and  rubbed  the  stains  away  as  best  he  could 
with  his  handkerchief. 

Then  he  came  back  and  took  Zelie's  hand  and  lifted 
it  to  his  lips.  "Good-bye,"  he  faltered.  "I'll  go  now. 
I  know  that  I'm  a  poor,  mean  creature — a  despicable 
hound — but  you  can  do  what  you  will  with  me,  Zelie. 
You  have  only  to  threaten  not  to  see  me  again  and  I 
cringe  to  you.  God — but  it's  not  so  long  ago  since  I 
was  a  man!" 

And  so  he  left  her.  He  had  but  a  few  shillings  in 
his  pocket,  and  did  not  know  where  he  was  to  obtain 
more.  Yet  he  had  promised  to  work,  to  reform ! 

He  walked  slowly,  dragging  his  feet.  A  sense  of 
definite  lassitude  came  upon  him.  Near  the  door  of 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  283 

the  house  he  had  met  Sir  Donald  Ransom,  looking 
spruce,  pleased  with  himself,  expectant.  Sir  Donald 
had  glanced  at  him  without  recognition.  How  low  he 
must  have  fallen ! 

Sir  Donald  was  going  to  see  Zelie.  Owen  stood 
at  the  corner  of  the  street  until  the  young  man  had 
knocked  at  the  door  and  been  admitted.  A  welcome 
guest,  no  doubt — while  he,  Owen,  Zelie's  husband,  who 
had  every  right  to  go  there,  was  refused  the  house! 
And  he  had  submitted  without  a  murmur!  He  de- 
spised himself,  loathed  himself — but  in  a  half-hearted, 
spiritless  fashion. 

The  craving  for  drink  seized  upon  him.  Of  course, 
it  was  that  which  had  made  such  a  coward  of  him. 
He  had  taken  no  stimulant  for  nearly  twenty-four 
hours ;  no  food,  either.  He  must  have  a  little  brandy, 
and  then,  perhaps,  he  would  see  his  way  clearer — 
just  a  little,  to  put  life  into  his  sluggish  veins. 

He  turned  into  a  public-house.  Zelie,  who  desired 
nothing  better  than  that  he  should  drink  himself  to 
death,  would  have  laughed  could  she  have  seen  him 
then. 

And  she  would  have  rejoiced  still  more  had  she  seen 
him  later  on,  a  pitiable  object,  tossing  on  his  bed  in 
the  delirium  of  a  drug-begotten  sleep.  For  she  would 
have  recognised  the  futility  of  taking  any  steps  to 
rid  herself  of  a  man  who  was  bent  upon  his  own 
destruction. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ZELIE  leant  back  upon  her  sofa  and  laughed  noisily. 
She  was  in  her  dressing-room  at  the  theatre,  and  it 
was  little  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  the 
whole  vast  house  had  resounded  with  the  applause 
which  her  dancing  always  called  forth.  She  was  quite 
accustomed  to  it  now,  and  accepted  it  as  merely  her 
due. 

Her  performance  was  very  similar  to  that  which  she 
had  given  at  Chamney  Castle,  save  that  in  the  Danse 
du  Neant  the  presence  of  a  masculine  companion  was 
only  implied,  just  as  in  her  other  dances  the  audience 
were  always  able  to  people  the  stage  with  characters 
which  did  not  exist  in  actual  fact.  It  had  been  deemed 
most  effective  that  Zelie's  remarkable  personality 
should  not  be  interfered  with  by  the  introduction  of 
another  performer. 

It  had  not  taken  her  long  to  recover  from  the  effects 
of  her  interview  with  Owen.  As  soon  as  the  drawing- 
room  door  closed  behind  him  she  had  thrust  out  her 
tongue  derisively,  danced  a  few  steps  of  a  wild  can- 
can, abused  him  in  her  coarsest  Montmartre  slang, 
and  then,  finding  herself  before  the  mirror,  commenced 
to  smooth  down  her  hair,  congratulating  herself  all 
the  time  upon  her  astuteness  in  having  got  rid  of  an 
incubus. 

"Claim  me  as  his  wife — he!  Oh!  mon  Dieu!  but 
it  would  have  been  awkward  if  he  had.  I  did  well 
to  temporise.  For  this  Owen — this  husband  of  mine, 

284 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  285 

whom  I  hate — he  shall  not  stand  in  my  way" — 
she  clenched  her  fists — "I  say  he  shall  not!  I  will  rid 
myself  of  him — we  shall  see — we  shall  see !" 

Her  features  softened  curiously.  "For  what  would 
Donald  say  if  he  knew  that  I  was  not  free?  He  has 
queer  ideas,  this  good  Donald  of  mine,  and  he  would 
not  take  a  woman  who  belonged  to  another  man, 
though  he  does  not  hesitate  to  break  his  vows  to  the 
girl  who  was  to  have  been  his  wife.  Ah!  they  are 
funny,  these  men,  and  we  can  twist  them  round  our 
fingers,  we  who  are  clever."  She  lifted  her  fingers  to 
her  lips  and  kissed  them  lightly.  "For,  see  this.  They 
tell  me  that  Donald  is  in  love  with  an  English  miss — 
oh!  but  very  much  in  love — that  he  will  marry  her, 
and  they  will  be  happy  ever  after — but  I  say,  'No! 
I  like  your  Donald.  He  is  handsome — he  pleases  me/ 
And  so  I  smile  upon  him — and  it  is  enough.  Voila! — 
he  is  at  my  feet.  Why  not?  There  is  another  who 
loves  him  ?  Bah !  I  mock  myself  of  women — I  mock 
myself  of  the  world !" 

A  drop  or  two  of  blood  which  had  fallen  from 
Owen's  wounded  face,  and  stained  the  carpet,  caught 
her  eyes  at  that  moment;  she  ground  her  heel  over 
the  spot,  muttering  another  curse  upon  her  husband, 
then  she  hurried  off  to  her  bedroom  to  continue  there 
the  adjustment  of  her  toilette.  She  was  not  content 
till  she  had  changed  her  afternoon  gown  for  a  be- 
coming negligee,  and  by  the  time  she  had  done  this 
her  equanimity  was  quite  restored. 

Of  course,  she  had  kept  Sir  Donald  waiting,  but 
she  looked  so  extraordinarily  fascinating  when  at  last 
she  reappeared  in  the  drawing-room  that  he  could  find 
nothing  to  say  but  just,  "Zelie!  Zelie!  How  wonder- 
ful you  are !  How  can  any  man  resist  you  ?" 

She  smiled  upon  him  in  answer,  and,  indeed,  a  curi- 


286  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

ous  change  had  come  over  her  face.  Its  lines  were 
less  hard,  the  humanity  of  it  more  marked.  Had  Lord 
Martyn  seen  her  at  that  moment  he  would  have  feared 
for  her.  Had  he  not  always  said  that  Zelie's  day 
would  be  over  if  ever  she  became  like  other  women — 
if  ever  she  should  find  her  soul  ? 

They  dined  together  that  evening,  Sir  Donald  and 
Zelie.  The  name  of  Lady  Beatrice  was  not  mentioned 
between  them.  After  dinner  they  drove  to  the  theatre 
in  Zelie's  brougham. 

Just  before  her  turn  was  signalled  the  dancer  was 
handed  a  note.  It  came  from  Lord  Martyn,  and  it 
requested  a  private  interview  after  the  performance. 
Zelie  sent  a  reply  inviting  him  to  her  dressing-room 
when  she  should  have  left  the  stage. 

She  found  him  there  awaiting  her.  She  was  flushed, 
a  little  out  of  breath,  and  her  nerves  on  edge,  as  they 
always  were  after  the  abandonment  of  her  dancing. 
She  threw  herself  down  upon  a  sofa,  her  breast  heav- 
ing under  the  thin  black  corsage  which  she  wore  as 
the  Apache  in  the  last  item  of  her  performance.  The 
floor  was  littered  with  other  articles  of  attire,  gauzy 
fabrics  of  white  and  black,  all  of  them  in  curious  con- 
trast to  the  rich  evening  gown  which  had  been  laid  out 
over  a  chair,  ready  to  be  donned  again. 

"I  always  rest  for  a  few  minutes  after  I  leave  the 
stage,"  she  explained,  "but  you  know  that,  Milor 
Harry.  You  may  talk  to  me  while  I  lie  here." 

He  drew  a  chair  up  to  her  side  and  talked.  His 
face  was  grave,  and  Zelie  thought  that  he  had  aged 
remarkably  since  she  had  first  met  him.  He  kept 
pulling  at  his  black  beard  in  a  manner  that  was  char- 
acteristic of  him. 

And  it  was  with  characteristic  promptitude,  too, 
that  he  came  to  the  point,  once  the  ordinary  words 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  287 

of  greeting  and  compliment  were  spoken.  Lord  Mar- 
tyn  was  not  given  to  beating  about  the  bush  when 
his  mind  was  made  up.  And  it  was  quite  made  up 
now. 

There  remained  but  one  way  by  which  the  panther 
might  be  cajoled  back  to  its  cage — the  panther  that 
had  done  so  much  harm  already.  It  was  he  himself, 
Lord  Martyn,  who  had  given  the  beast  its  freedom, 
so  upon  him  lay  the  responsibility  of  guarding  against 
other  victims  falling  into  the  clutch  of  those  death- 
dealing  claws.  He  must  atone — by  devoting  himself. 

"Zelie,"  he  said  smoothly,  "I  feel  that  in  a  way  I'm 
answerable  for  you.  I'll  be  quite  frank  about  it.  I 
launched  you  in  London,  knowing  full  well  that  you 
would  be  a  danger  to  society,  that  your  beauty — your 
astonishing  power  of  attraction,  which,  whatever  it 
may  be  due  to,  is  hardly  human — would  set  people  by 
the  ears.  I  had  a  grudge  against  society,  you  see.  My 
experiment  has  been  successful — too  successful.  I 
think  I  underestimated  the  folly  of  my  kind.  Well, 
my  dear,  I  don't  blame  you,  of  course.  It's  all  due  to 
the  inscrutable  ways  of  what  we  are  pleased  to  call 
Providence.  But  I  fancy  it's  time  to  draw  in,  and 
with  this  object  in  view  I'm  going  to  make  you  an 
offer." 

"An  offer?"  She  folded  her  bare  arms  above  her 
head,  and  the  white  of  them  glinted  from  beneath  the 
meshes  of  rick  black  hair  which  lay  upon  them  like 
a  veil.  Her  lashes  drooped  lazily  over  her  eyes.  "An 
offer?"  she  repeated. 

He  nodded  gravely.  "Yes.  I  think  I  understand 
your  nature,  Zelie,  as  well,  at  least,  as  a  man  can  un- 
derstand the  heart  of  a  woman.  You  love  applause, 
admiration,  position,  gold — you  love  yourself.  Beyond 
these  things  you  are  cold.  You  despise  mankind — 


288  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

yes,  men  and  women  alike.  It  pleases  you  that  men 
shall  pay  you  court,  but  you  have  no  love  to  give  in 
return.  You  have  never  loved.  You  never  will." 

She  lifted  her  lids  and  turned  her  head  a  little.  Her 
eyes  glittered  behind  their  dark  circles  of  paint.  "And 
if  this  is  so,"  she  said,  "why  do  you  speak  of  it?  To 
what  are  you  coming?" 

"To  this,"  he  responded.  "I  am  ready  to  give  you 
all  that  you  most  desire,  Zelie — a  high  position,  a  name 
that  is  centuries  old,  a  fortune  that  you  may  play  with 
as  you  please.  And  I  do  not  ask  for  love  in  return. 
There  shall  be  no  question  of  love — as  love — between 
us.  I  merely  want  you  to  be  my  wife."  Even  at  that 
moment  Martyn  could  not  restrain  the  vein  of  satire 
that  was  so  strong  within  him. 

This  was  the  only  way — or  so  he  had  decided — by 
which  Sir  Donald  and  Lady  Beatrice  could  be  restored 
to  each  other's  arms.  The  spell  of  the  siren  must  be 
removed.  There  was  real  love  between  the  two  young 
people  in  whose  fortunes  he  was  so  deeply  interested — 
and  Donald  was  an  honourable  man,  though  he  had 
been  snared,  tempted,  and  was  drifting  to  dishonour 
in  spite  of  all  that  was  good  in  him. 

"So  you  wish  to  marry  me,  Milor  Harry?"  Zelie 
sat  up  as  she  put  the  question. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  quietly,  "to  marry  you." 

"But  you  don't" — she  hesitated — "love  me?" 

"No — no  more  than  I  expect  you  to  love  me,  Zelie. 
Love,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  died  in  my  breast 
many  years  ago.  It  left  me  cold."  He  folded  his 
arms  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  girl.  For  one  brief 
moment,  as  he  spoke  of  dead  love,  they  had  softened 
— then  the  light  died  out  of  them  again. 

"And  you  do  not  even  feel  that — that  attraction 
which  you  say  I  exert  over  men — without  knowing  it? 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  289 

You  have  no  passion?"  She  threw  out  the  word 
boldly,  defiantly.  There  had  been  times  when  she  won- 
dered why  this  strong  man,  who  had  seemingly  taken 
such  interest  in  her,  had  never,  by  word  or  deed,  ex- 
pressed any  warmer  feeling. 

"No." 

It  was  then  that  Zelie  had  thrown  herself  back  upon 
the  sofa  and  broken  out  into  a  harsh  laugh.  For  she 
guessed  the  reason  of  Lord  Martyn's  proposal. 

"Yet  you  would  marry  me — why  ?"  The  words  were 
broken  by  her  laughter. 

He  frowned  a  little — for  why  should  she  laugh? 
"Let  us  say  that  it  is  because  I  am  still  ambitious  for 
you,"  he  replied,  carefully  weighing  his  speech,  "be- 
cause I  want  my  wife  to  be  a  woman  who  is  different 
to  any  other  woman  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The 
world  regards  me  as  an  eccentric  man,  Zelie ;  perhaps 
I  wish  to  crown  my  eccentricities  by  this  marriage.  At 
any  rate,  what  I  propose  is  all  for  your  benefit;  so, 
since  you  do  not  desire  love,  but  only  worldly  gain — 
you  have  told  me  so  many  times — why  should  we 
trouble  about  the  reason  of  my  proposal?  A  union 
between  you  and  me  will  hurt  no  one  and  it  may  save 
many." 

Zelie  stretched  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  wrist. 
"Ah!  there  we  have  it,  mon  ami!"  she  said.  "That 
is  the  true  reason.  I  am  a  danger,  and  you  would 
save  someone  from  me.  It  is  of  Sir  Donald  that  you 
are  thinking.  Am  I  not  right,  heinf" 

He  inclined  his  head.  "You  do  not  love  Sir  Don- 
ald," he  replied,  "only  it  pleases  you  to  encourage  his 
infatuation.  But  I  can  give  you  more,  far  more,  than 
ever  Sir  Donald  could  offer.  You  will  not  hesitate 
between  us,  Zelie?" 

Lord  Martyn  spoke  bluntly,  for  this  was  his  trump 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

card.  He  knew  that  if  he  was  to  gain  his  point  it  was 
only  the  girl's  avarice,  her  self-love,  that  he  could  ap- 
peal to.  She  had  no  finer  emotion  to  play  upon.  The 
conviction  of  this  had  actuated  him  throughout.  It 
was  merely  a  compact  that  he  was  proposing,  a  com- 
pact in  which  all  the  advantage  was  on  one  side.  He 
had  imagined  that  Zelie  would  see  it  in  this  light. 

But  for  once  he  was  mistaken — as  he  was  soon  to 
learn.  For  Zelie  laughed  again,  and  her  laughter 
jarred  upon  his  ears.  Then  she  rose  from  her  sofa 
and  crossed  to  her  dressing-table;  it  was  as  though 
she  wished  to  signify  that  the  interview  was  at  an 
end. 

"I  am  flattered,  Milor  Harry,"  she  said,  "by  your 
proposal."  She  dropped  him  a  mock  curtsy.  "But, 
no — I  cannot  accept  it."  She  was  not  going  to  ac- 
knowledge herself  a  married  woman — there  was  no- 
need  for  that.  "Nor  would  I  if  I  could — without  love," 
she  added. 

Martyn  could  hardly  believe  that  he  had  heard 
aright.  He  had  not  had  the  smallest  doubt  of  the 
success  of  his  manoeuvre  till  Zelie  laughed.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  stepped  quickly  to  the  girl's  side.  He 
towered  over  her  as  he  stood  there,  a  strong  man 
whose  self-confidence  had  received  a  sudden  check. 

"Without  love?"  he  faltered.  "Zelie,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  what  do  you  mean?  You  do  not  love  anyone? 
You  are  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  loves.  You  can 
play  with  men's  souls  and  toss  them  away — that  is 
why  I  felt  it  would  cost  you  nothing  to  give  up  those 
who  are  hovering  round  you  now — the  one  especially 
— and  marry  me.  But  love — what  have  you  to  do  with 
love?' 

"Only  this,"  she  replied,  and  of  a  sudden  her  voice 
had  softened,  and  all  its  mocking  ring  had  gone  from 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  291 

it — "that  he  has  taught  me  to  love — yes,  Donald.  For 
the  others,  I  have  cared  nothing — no,  never,  never. 
No  man  has  ever  really  stirred  my  heart.  I  have  never 
known  what  love  is — till  now.  I  never  thought  I 
should.  I  never  wished  to.  You  were  right  when 
you  said  that  I  wanted  nothing  but  gold — gold  and 
applause — gold  and  admiration — but  always  gold  first. 
Had  you  come  to  me  yesterday,  mon  ami,  I  might 
have  made  you  any  promise  you  desire,  but  you  are 
just  a  few  hours  too  late."  She  pressed  her  hands  to 
her  palpitating  bosom.  "For  now  there  is  something 
born  within  me — something  that  has  sprung  to  life 
within  my  breast — and  it  is  sweet  and  fresh  and  tender, 
and  I  feel  that  I  must  guard  it  as  a  mother  guards  her 
young.  That  is  why  I  was  hard  just  now,  why  I 
laughed,  for  it  was  as  if  you  were  attacking  that  which 
I  cherish." 

Zelie's  eyes  shone  fiercely,  and  yet  Lord  Martyn 
had  never  before  seen  so  much  humanity  in  her  face. 
He  knew  that  his  mission  had  failed,  that  it  was  hope- 
less, and  for  a  few  moments  anger  mastered  him.  His 
heavy  hands  fell  upon  the  girl's  shoulders,  and  she 
bent  under  their  weight.  He  could  have  killed  her 
with  one  blow,  and  yet  it  was  she  who  had  mastered 
him. 

"Woman — witch!"  he  cried,  "thing  of  evil!  have 
you  not  a  single  spark  of  human  feeling  in  your  breast? 
Hasn't  a  little  charity  been  born  in  you  at  the  same 
time  as  this  love?  Don't  you  know  that  you  are  rob- 
bing another  of  all  that  makes  life  happy  for  her? 
Was  it  no  lesson  to  you  that  Cecily  Cuthbert  should 
call  you  murderess?  For  Donald  Ransom  does  not 
love  you,  I  say.  It  is  not  love  that  he  offers  you.  You 
have  ensnared  him,  you  vile  sorceress  of  lust  and  pas- 
sion! His  heart  belongs  to  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer — 


293  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

it  will  never  be  yours!  You  cannot  inspire  love — 
you!" 

"What  do  I  care?"  Zelie  drew  up  her  lithe  body, 
and  met  the  burning  hate  of  the  man's  gaze  with  de- 
fiance. "It  is  I  who  win.  Donald  has  taught  me  to 
love  him,  and  by  that  love  I  shall  hold  him  fast.  What 
is  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer  to  me?  What  is  any  man  or 
woman  in  the  whole  world  to  me,  except  the  one 
being  I  love  ?  Why,  I  should  not  care  if  the  earth  were 
drenched  through  and  through  with  their  tears — aye, 
or  with  their  blood!" 

She  spoke  with  a  wild  fervour  that  was  not  without 
its  finer  side.  For  Zelie  was  not  to  be  judged  by 
ordinary  standards,  as  none  knew  better  than  Lord 
Martyn  himself.  Her  very  cruelty  and  heartlessness, 
her  utter  lack  of  human  sympathy — all  these  were 
but  as  Nature  had  bestowed  them  upon  the  primeval 
creatures  of  which  Zelie  was  the  prototype.  Could 
she  be  blamed  because  she  was  a  living  expression  of 
primitive  instinct? 

"Blame  the  inherent  cruelty  of  things,"  Martyn 
muttered  to  himself  as  his  hands  fell  to  his  sides. 

"Ah!  Zelie!  Zelie!"  he  added  aloud.  "It  is  useless 
for  me  to  argue  with  you.  You  have  beaten  me,  and 
left  me  without  a  weapon — I  who  could  strangle  the 
life  out  of  you  with  one  of  my  hands !"  He  addressed 
her  in  a  tone  of  intense  sadness.  "There  will  be  more 
tears  and  mourning  about  your  path,  Zelie,  more  pain 
and  bloodshed,  and  it  is  I  who  am  to  blame,  not  you 
yourself,  who  know  no  better." 

He  extended  his  large  hands.  "See!"  he  cried. 
"They  are  stained  already — and  the  tears  that  have 
fallen  upon  them — and  are  to  fall — cannot  wash  away 
the  marks!  But  listen  to  me,  Zelie,  for  what  I  tell 
you  is  true,  even  though  I  am  looking  into  the  future. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  293 

Your  eyes  are  dry  now,  but  they  will  be  wet.  You 
say  that  love  is  born  in  your  breast,  you  who  have 
never  known  love.  Do  you  understand  what  that 
means  ?  It  means  that  the  soul  within  you  is  awaken- 
ing— that  you  will  be  a  woman  like  other  women.  And 
the  birth  pangs  will  not  be  easy,  Zelie,  nor  will  the 
soul  that  is  born  to  you  bring  anything  but  sorrow 
and  despair!" 

He  left  her  upon  that  and  made  his  way  slowly  to 
the  street.  As  he  emerged  from  the  stage  door  a 
newsboy  thrust  a  late  edition  of  an  evening  paper 
before  him. 

"Result  of  the  great  murder  trial!  Here  you  are, 
guv'nor!"  cried  the  urchin.  "Scene  in  court!"  The 
boy  was  carrying  a  bill  on  which  the  words  appeared 
in  huge  letters. 

So  the  end  had  been  reached  sooner  than  Martyn 
had  expected.  He  purchased  a  paper,  and  paused 
under  a  street  lamp  to  inspect  the  stop-press  news.  He 
had  no  doubt  in  his  mind  as  to  the  verdict. 

But  as  he  read  the  brief  paragraph  to  its  conclusion 
he  started,  and  his  hands  trembled  so  that  he  could 
scarcely  hold  the  paper. 

A  cry  escaped  his  lips.  "My  God!  No!  no!  It 
isn't  possible!  it  isn't  possible!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
"HAVE  met  with  accident.    Come  to  me. — OWEN/' 

The  telegram  had  been  despatched  from  a  central 
London  hospital.  The  thin  pink  paper  fluttered  from 
Robin's  hand  to  the  floor,  and  he  sat  quite  still  for  a 
minute,  staring  at  the  picture  upon  which  he  was 
engaged.  It  was  a  landscape,  painted  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Selwood,  and  he  was  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  it  in  his  studio.  He  had  leased  a  cottage 
upon  the  Manor  estate,  and  had  resided  there  ever 
since  Owen's  flight — except  for  the  time  which  he  had 
spent  in  vain  pursuit  of  his  friend. 

The  picture  had  been  commissioned  by  Lord  Mar- 
tyn,  who  had  manifested  an  interest  in  the  young  artist, 
a  disposition  to  lend  him  a  helping  hand.  He  had 
given  Robin  certain  introductions,  of  which  the  latter 
had  made  good  use,  so  that  future  prospects  appeared 
bright,  and  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  bury  himself 
once  more  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau.  He  had, 
indeed,  removed  his  belongings  from  his  former  home 
and  settled  definitely  in  England. 

"Poor  fellow!  poor  Owen!"  Robin  rose,  and  began 
rummaging  among  the  papers  upon  his  writing-table 
for  a  time-table.  "Of  course  I'll  go  to  him — go  by 
the  very  next  train.  God  grant  it  may  not  be  anything 
really  serious." 

There  was  no  train  to  London,  however,  for  another 
294 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  295 

two  hours.  Selwood  was  on  a  branch  line  where 
there  was  little  traffic.  Robin  decided  that  he  would 
walk  over  to  the  Manor  and  tell  Lavender  that  he 
might  be  absent  for  a  day  or  two — it  was  just  as  well 
that  he  had  the  opportunity.  And  in  the  meanwhile 
he  would  send  a  telegram  to  Owen  announcing  his 
approaching  arrival. 

He  would  not  tell  Lavender  the  true  object  of  his 
journey.  There  were  reasons  why  he  could  not  do 
so.  As  he  plodded  along  across  the  fields,  taking  a 
short  cut  to  the  Manor — a  pleasant  walk  through  wood 
and  over  meadow — he  meditated,  with  a  half-smile,  a 
smile  that  was  tinged  with  sadness  and  self-sympathy, 
upon  the  curious  state  of  affairs  that  had  come  into 
being  since  the  departure  of  Owen  from  Selwood. 

It  was  all  due  to  Robin's  kindness  of  heart  and 
weakness  of  character.  He  could  not  bear  to  give 
pain,  and  he  had  shrunk  from  the  task  of  breaking 
to  Lavender  the  news  of  her  lover's  perfidy.  She 
did  not  know — even  to-day — that  Owen  was  already 
a  married  man ! 

It  had  all  come  about  so  naturally,  so  quietly,  and 
Robin  had  found  himself  involved  in  a  maze  of  sub- 
terfuge— a  maze  from  which  he  could  only  extricate 
himself  by  disavowing  all  the  stories  which  he  had 
concocted — before  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  One 
excuse  had  led  to  another,  one  small  lie  had  demanded 
a  bigger  to  back  it  up,  and  so  it  had  gone  on  till  the 
tangle  was  past  remedy. 

For  Lavender  was  so  terribly  distressed  that  day 
when  Owen  had  departed  for  London  without  a  word 
of  explanation,  leaving  the  girl  who  loved  him  so 
devotedly  at  a  time  when  she  needed  him  most.  How 
could  Robin  have  spoken  the  truth  then?  It  was 
beyond  his  power  to  do  so.  She  pressed  him  with 


296  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

questions.     Had  he  not  had  a  long  talk  with  Owen, 
been  taken  into  the  confidence  of  the  latter? 

So  Robin  began  his  tissue  of  inventions.  Owen 
felt  his  position  as  a  poor  man  engaged  to  a  rich  girl. 
His  funds  were  running  short — that  was  the  secret 
which  had  been  harassing  him  for  weeks  and  making 
him  so  unlike  himself.  He  was  too  proud  to  confess 
the  truth  to  Lavender.  He  had  gone  away  to  work 
— to  re-establish  his  position — and  he  had  begged 
Robin  to  explain  matters  to  his  fiancee. 

"But  the  money  is  nothing  to  me!"  Lavender  cried. 
"It  is  Owen's  by  right,  and  would  have  been  his  but 
for  dear  mother's  sudden  and  tragic  death.  Oh !  won't 
he  look  at  it  like  that — and  come  back  to  me?" 

Robin  was  obliged  to  entrench  himself  behind  the 
standpoint  of  Owen's  invincible  pride.  He  succeeded 
in  comforting  the  girl  for  the  time  being,  which  was 
his  main  object  that  day.  "She  will  learn  the  truth 
when  Owen  writes,"  he  told  himself.  "She  will  be 
better  able  to  bear  it  then." 

But  Owen  never  wrote.  The  days  passed,  and  no 
letter  came.  Lavender  began  to  fret  once  more. 

And  then — always  to  avert  the  evil  day — to  keep 
those  dear  eyes  from  shedding  tears,  Robin  adopted 
desperate,  foolish  means.  He  himself  wrote  letters, 
and  signed  them  with  Owen's  name.  There  was  no 
difficulty  about  the  handwriting.  The  lovers  had  never 
corresponded,  Owen  having  been  at  Selwood  from 
the  beginning  of  the  engagement  to  the  day  of  his 
flight. 

It  was  quite  easy  to  send  the  letters  to  a  friend  in 
Paris  and  have  them  posted  from  there.  In  these 
communications  Owen  professed  to  be  very  busy  set- 
tling his  affairs  and  making  arrangements  for  the  fu- 
ture; he  was  building  himself  up  a  position;  as  soon 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  297 

as  this  was  established  he  would  return  and  claim 
Lavender  as  his  wife;  he  would  no  longer  feel  then 
that  he  was  taking  undue  advantage  of  his  fiancee's 
wealth. 

And  all  the  while  Robin  knew  how  hopeless  it  was, 
how  futile.  There  were  days  when  an  avowal  trem- 
bled upon  his  lips ;  then  he  would  purse  them  tightly 
together.  "Another  time,  another  time,"  he  would 
mutter  to  himself.  "I  shall  find  a  way  out.  Lavender 
mustn't  be  made  to  cry." 

And  so  it  went  on.  Robin  spoke  to  no  one  of  Owen's 
marriage,  not  even  to  Lord  Martyn,  whom  he  saw 
frequently  in  those  days.  But  he  made  an  effort  to 
trace  his  friend,  fearing  for  his  future,  and  guessing 
that  Zelie  would  have  none  of  him;  but  though  he 
did  his  utmost,  both  in  London  and  Paris,  his  search 
was  fruitless.  He  returned  to  Selwood,  drawn  there 
by  the  magnetism  of  Lavender,  and  the  tragic  farce 
was  continued  as  before. 

For  Robin  suffered  acutely.  He  and  Lavender  were 
thrown  much  together,  and  she  was  far  too  natural 
and  healthy-minded  to  conceal  from  him  that  she  was 
glad  of  his  company,  that  she  had  a  strong  liking  for 
him,  as  Owen's  friend,  and  that  the  sympathy  which 
had  sprung  up  between  them  was  agreeable  to  her. 

Once  she  ventured  to  question  him  as  to  why  he 
had  never  married,  and  in  a  burst  of  confidence  Robin 
told  her  all  about  his  never- forgotten  love  affair ;  how 
the  girl  to  whom  he  had  given  his  heart  had  been 
stricken  down  by  consumption,  how  he  had  married 
her  when  she  had  but  a  few  weeks  of  life  to  look  for- 
ward to,  how  their  honeymoon — a  brief  honeymoon, 
spent  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau — had  terminated, 
as  they  both  knew  it  must,  in  the  bride  being  laid 
to  rest  in  a  quiet  little  cemetery,  hedged  in  by  giant 


298  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

trees,  where  the  grass  was  always  green,  and  where 
wild  flowers,  which  she  loved  so  dearly,  grew  in  pro- 
fusion. 

That  Lavender  was  the  living  image  of  his  dead 
love,  this  fact  Robin  kept  to  himself,  as  closely  as  he 
kept  the  secret  of  the  adoration  he  bore  her.  For 
Lavender  was  not  for  him,  so  he  told  himself  over 
and  over  again,  with  his  blundering  lack  of  self-confi- 
dence ;  how  could  she  care  for  him  when  she  had  given 
her  heart  to  Owen?  Owen,  so  handsome  and  clever; 
Owen,  who  had  proved  so  false  ? 

And  so  Robin's  days  were  bitter-sweet;  yet  he 
prayed  night  and  morning  that  they  might  endure 
a  little  longer,  and  he  could  see  no  other  way  to  secure 
this  but  by  keeping  up  the  deception  which  he  had 
already  practised  successfully  for  so  many  weeks.  For 
when  Lavender  knew  the  truth,  as  she  must  at  last, 
she  would  be  angry;  she  would  never  forgive  him; 
she  would  not  understand ;  and  then  he  must  go,  there 
would  be  nothing  for  it  but  that ;  but,  oh !  might  God 
grant  that  that  day  should  not  come  soon ! 

The  letters  which  he  wrote  to  Lavender  in  Owen's 
name  came  to  have  a  weird  fascination  for  him.  Very 
soon  after  he  had  begun  writing  them  the  girl  com- 
plained to  him  that  Owen  expressed  himself  coldly, 
that  his  letters  were  not  lover-like.  She  did  not  com- 
plain a  second  time.  Robin  put  into  his  effusions  all 
the  passion  of  his  own  heart,  all  the  longing  desire 
he  bore.  Owen  was  almost  forgotten  as  the  burning 
words  flowed  from  a  ready  pen.  Once  he  had  actu- 
ally signed  his  own  name,  but  discovered  the  mistake 
in  time. 

Of  course,  he  received  Lavender's  replies.  He  treas- 
ured them  as  holy  things.  At  first  he  did  not  intend 
to  read  them,  but  there  were  questions  to  be  answered ; 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  299 

it  was  necessary  to  show  a  knowledge  of  what  she  had 
written.  The  pain  of  it,  at  first,  was  almost  more 
than  he  could  bear,  but  by  degrees,  in  some  extraordi- 
nary fashion,  he  began  to  forget  Owen  and  associate 
himself  with  the  letters,  so  that  he  looked  for  their 
coming  with  the  keenest  desire. 

Robin  pondered  upon  these  matters  as  he  made  his 
way  to  the  Manor.  For  how  long  could  he  keep  up 
the  deception  ?  How  would  it  all  end  ?  He  knew  that 
he  had  been  a  fool,  and  yet  it  was  love — the  deepest, 
tenderest  love,  which  had  inspired  folly. 

Lavender  and  Mrs.  Foxhall,  her  chaperon,  were  in 
the  garden  sunning  themselves  upon  the  lawn.  The 
elder  lady  had  the  day's  paper  spread  out  before  her, 
and  she  had  evidently  been  reading  from  it  aloud. 
Robin  noticed  at  once  that  there  was  a  look  of  concern 
upon  the  girl's  face. 

"Isn't  this  a  terrible  thing,  Mr.  Clithero?"  she  said, 
after  the  formal  words  of  greeting  had  been  spoken. 
"Mrs.  Foxhall  has  been  reading  me  all  the  particulars. 
I  could  hardly  believe  it  true." 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  looked  at  the  morning  paper," 
Robin  admitted,  "so  I  don't  know  what  has  happened. 
I  had  some  work  I  wished  to  finish  in  a  hurry.  Will 
you  tell  me  all  about  it  ?" 

"It's  about  the  murder  of  that  poor  Mr.  Aldis  at 
Chamney,"  explained  Lavender.  "You  know  that 
the  trial  of  the  Frenchman,  whom  everybody  believed 
guilty,  was  nearing  its  end." 

"The  verdict  was  not  expected  till  Monday,"  put 
in  Robin. 

"No.  But  the  case  came  to  an  unexpected  con- 
clusion. The  prisoner  has  been  put  back  pending 
fresh  inquiries.  It  appears  that  last  night,  just  before 
the  closing  of  the  court,  a  woman  stood  up  and  accused 


300  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

herself  of  the  murder.  She  cried  out  that  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  that  she  must  not  let  the  innocent 
suffer  for  her  crime.  She  was  overwrought  and  hys- 
terical, I'm  sure,  for  it  isn't  possible — I  can't  believe 
it's  possible." 

"A  woman?"  Robin  looked  his  surprise,  and 
wondered. 

"Yes.  Cecily  Cuthbert,  the  actress,  you  know.  She 
cried  out  that  it  was  jealousy  which  made  her  do  the 
deed;  that  she  loved  the  man  she  killed,  and  that  she 
had  not  known  a  moment's  rest  since  she  struck  the 
blow.  Remorse  had  tortured  her.  There  was  a  ter- 
rible scene  in  court,  it  appears,  for  she  screamed,  and 
denounced  another  woman,  the  dancer — Zelie  is  the 
name  she  goes  by,  I  think — the  French  girl  who  was 
at  Chamney  the  night  of  the  murder,  and  whose  dan- 
cing made  me  shudder — as  the  real  cause  of  the  trag- 
edy, the  murderess — though  her  hands  were  not  stained 
with  blood.  Oh!  isn't  it  terrible?  I  remember  Miss 
Cuthbert  quite  well.  I  thought  her  so  pretty  and 
graceful — not  at  all  the  sort  of  woman  that  one  can 
associate  with  a  crime." 

"No."  Robin  set  his  teeth.  "If  it  had  been  the  other 
woman,  Zelie,  there  would  have  been  no  cause  for 
wonder.  Guilty  or  no,  Miss  Cuthbert  was  right  in 
denouncing  that  tiger  cat  as  a  murderess — she  is  one 
of  those  who  lure  men,  body  and  soul,  to  destruction. 
There  is  venom  on  her  lips,  and  she  has  no  heart,  no 
warm,  human  blood  in  her  veins,  no  soul.  She  is 
what  she  showed  herself  as  that  night  at  Chamney 
— the  eternal  temptress,  a  creature  fashioned  from  the 
mist  of  ages." 

He  spoke  with  unwonted  vehemence,  and  Laven- 
der gazed  at  him  in  some  surprise ;  then  her  eyes  grew 
troubled. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  301 

"Oh!  is  she  as  bad  as  that,  Mr.  Clithero?"  Lavender 
clasped  her  hands  nervously.  "But — but  Owen  knows 
her,  doesn't  he?  They  talked  together  at  Chamney 
that  night.  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it,  but  I  wasn't 
quite  happy." 

Robin  laughed  shortly,  and  a  trifle  awkwardly,  re- 
alising that  he  was  on  dangerous  ground.  He  found 
some  excuse  for  Owen,  and  then  brought  the  conver- 
sation back,  as  quickly  as  he  could,  to  the  subject  of 
the  trial  and  Cecily  Cuthbert's  confession. 

Mrs.  Foxhall  was  quite  in  her  element  in  discussing 
this.  She  loved  sensational  cases.  She  adjusted  her 
spectacles  upon  her  nose,  and  read  out  paragraphs 
from  the  newspaper  report.  "I  confess  I  am  as  sur- 
prised as  everybody  else  must  be,"  she  declared.  "I 
had  quite  made  up  my  mind  that  this  French  creature 
— Bibi  Coupe-vide — what  a  name  to  go  by! — was 
guilty.  And  I  think  so  still,  and  am  sure  that  he'll  be 
found  guilty  in  the  end."  She  spoke  with  finality,  and 
as  if  her  word  was  law.  Then  she  rose  and  bustled  off 
to  the  house,  having  duties  to  attend  to. 

Lavender  accompanied  Robin  to  the  gates  of  the 
park.  He  had  told  her  that  he  was  going  to  London 
on  business,  and  might  be  absent  for  a  day  or  two. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Owen  this  morning,"  she  said 
with  a  smile — one  of  those  smiles  which  repaid  Robin 
for  all  that  he  had  suffered  by  his  deception,  "and  he 
says  that  he  is  getting  on  wonderfully,  so  it  may  not 
be  so  very  long  now  before  he  returns  to  me.  That 
foolish  pride  of  his — when  he  need  never  have  gone 
away  at  all !  But,  oh !  I  do  admire  him  for  it !  I  do, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  about  his  love  for  me  now — 
he  writes  so  sweetly,  so  tenderly.  And  it  was  all  for 
the  best,  after  all,  for  we  couldn't  have  been  married 
this  year,  while  he  and  I  are  still  in  mourning." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

Robin  reached  London  early  in  the  afternoon,  and 
made  his  way  direct  to  the  hospital  where  Owen  was 
lying.  Here  he  was  expected,  and  the  ward  sister 
supplied  him  with  particulars  of  the  accident  before 
conducting  him  to  the  bedside  of  the  patient. 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  no  hope,  Mr.  Clithero.  It  is 
very  doubtful  if  your  friend  lives  through  the  night. 
Have  you  seen  much  of  him  lately?"  The  sister  had 
keen  grey  eyes,  and  Robin  felt  that  she  was  scrutinising 
him  closely. 

No  hope !  Robin  shuddered,  for  the  recollection  of 
Lavender's  happy  words  when  he  left  her  at  Selwood 
Park  gates  flashed  through  his  brain.  "He  says  he 
is  getting  on  wonderfully — it  may  not  be  long  before 
he  returns  to  me."  And  all  the  while  Owen  lay  here, 
mangled  and  shattered,  at  death's  door.  How  tragic 
it  was,  how  infinitely  tragic! 

"No,"  Robin  replied,  "I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Mayne 
for  some  months." 

"It  appears  that  he  has  been  addicted  to  drugs. 
We  have  had  information  from  the  landlady  of  the 
house  where  he  was  living.  Not  only  that — he  has 
been  drinking  heavily.  He  went  home  last  night  in 
a  maddened  and  irresponsible  condition.  Towards 
morning  he  was  seized  with  violent  delirium.  The 
people  of  the  house  sought  to  restrain  him,  but  he 
escaped  from  them  and  flung  himself  out  of  the  win- 
dow. He  has  received  an  injury  to  his  spine — besides 
other  hurts — from  which  he  cannot  recover.  He  re- 
gained consciousness  in  the  hospital,  and  was  able  to 
give  us  your  address — he  said  that  he  had  no  other 
friends.  Only  he  kept  repeating  the  name  of  Zelie, 
and  I  found  out  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  French 
girl  who  dances  at  the  Star  Theatre.  So  I  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  her — but  she  has  not  come." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  303 

"Does  he  know  that  you  sent  that  message  ?"  Robin 
put  the  question  anxiously. 

"Yes.  And  since  then  he  has  never  taken  his  eyes 
from  the  door.  But  she  will  not  come.  I'm  sure  of 
that  from  the  way  she  received  the  messenger — one 
of  our  porters.  He  says,  Mr.  Clithero,  that  her  eyes 
lit  up  when  she  read  the  note,  and  that  she  laughed — 
she  laughed!" 

"Curse  her!"  muttered  Robin  under  his  breath. 
Then  he  asked  if  he  might  be  taken  to  his  dying  friend. 

He  bit  his  lip  to  keep  the  tears  back  when  he  stood 
by  the  partially-screened  bed  in  the  long  ward  and 
gazed  down  upon  the  poor  shattered  thing  that,  not 
so  many  months  ago,  had  been  a  man,  a  man  of  splen- 
did physique  and  robust  health,  one  whom  men  envied 
and  women  admired — his  friend,  Owen  Mayne. 

This  was  he  whom  Robin  had  set  up  on  a  pedestal 
and  made  a  hero  of.  This  was  he  whose  good  looks, 
whose  easy  manners  and  quick  wit,  had  won  so  many 
hearts,  who  might  have  risen  to  proud  heights  be- 
cause of  the  talent  that  was  in  him;  above  all,  this 
was  he  upon  whom  Lavender  had  bestowed  her  love, 
he  for  whose  return  she  was  waiting,  picturing  him 
to  herself  the  proud  lover,  the  man  that  he  ought  to 
have  been.  And  he  lay  here,  his  face  contorted,  dis- 
coloured, hideous,  the  hand  of  death  upon  him !  Oh ! 
the  pity  of  it! 

"Curse  her !"  repeated  Robin,  gulping  down  the  lump 
that  had  risen  in  his  throat.  "It  is  she,  Zelie,  who  has 
brought  him  to  this." 

It  was  true  that  Owen's  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon 
the  door.  His  bed  was  placed  close  to  it.  There  was 
a  faint  glimmer  in  them  as  the  sister  appeared  with 
a  visitor,  then  the  light  had  died  out  and  the  lids  fell. 
Apparently  he  had  not  recognised  his  friend. 


304  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

"He  is  going  fast,"  whispered  the  sister. 

Robin  stooped  over  the  bed.  There  were  red  marks, 
like  scratches,  upon  Owen's  forehead  and  cheek  and 
lip. 

"We  don't  know  how  he  received  those  wounds," 
said  the  sister;  "they  did  not  happen  in  his  fall.  He 
had  them  when  he  went  home  last  night.  But  they 
are  superficial,  and  of  no  importance." 

"They  look  as  if  they  had  been  done  with  a  claw," 
Robin  said,  with  an  involuntary  shudder.  "The  wild 
beast  has  left  her  mark  upon  him,"  he  added  to  him- 
self, but  without  any  idea  in  his  mind  of  how  nearly 
he  spoke  the  truth. 

An  hour  later  Owen  roused  himself  and  stared  wildly 
at  Robin,  who  was  still  seated  quietly  by  the  bed. 

"Has  she  come?"  The  words  were  breathed  in  a 
moan. 

Robin  bent  forward  and  rested  his  hand  on  that  of 
the  dying  man.  "It  is  I,  Robin,"  he  said.  "Don't 
you  know  me,  Owen?" 

There  was  faint  recognition  in  the  dull  eyes,  but 
the  question  was  repeated  mechanically: 

"Has  she  come?" 

Robin  hesitated,  then  he  lied  splendidly — lied  as  it 
was  his  nature  to  lie,  if  by  so  doing  he  might  spare 
pain. 

"Yes — she  came  an  hour  ago — Zelie,  your  wife.  You 
were  unconscious,  and  did  not  waken.  She  kissed 
you  on  the  brow  and  lips,  Owen.  She  sat  here  by  the 
bedside  longing  for  you  to  recognise  her.  Then  she 
had  to  go — her  profession,  you  understand.  But  she 
promised  to  return — to-morrow." 

Robin  spoke  the  last  word  with  a  catch  of  his  breath. 
For  the  words  of  the  sister  were  in  his  mind  as  he 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  305 

uttered  them.  She  had  said  that  her  patient  would 
not  live  through  the  night. 

"Thank  God  for  that!— but,  oh!  why  didn't  I  feel 
that  she  was  here?  Still,  thank  God — and  to-morrow 
— I  shall  see  her  to-morrow !" 

Robin  was  repaid  for  his  lie  by  the  change  that 
came  over  the  sick  man's  face — a  change  that  was  al- 
most startling.  The  haunting  look  of  agony,  the  ap- 
palling restlessness  of  spirit,  gave  place  to  a  calmer 
and  more  placid  mien;  the  horrible  contortion  of  fea- 
ture vanished;  the  lips  ceased  to  twitch  convulsively; 
the  eyes  regained  a  feeble  lustre. 

Owen's  thin  fingers  responded  a  little  to  the  pressure 
of  Robin's  hand.  "It  was  good  of  you  to  come,  old 
friend,"  he  murmured  brokenly.  "There  was  no  one 
I  wanted  to  see  but  Zelie  and  you." 

"There  is  someone  else  who  loves  you."  Robin 
bent  low  over  the  bed  so  that  his  whispered  words 
should  be  heard. 

"Lavender?  Ah!  poor  Lavender!  I  was  a  brute 
to  her.  I  have  had  the  measure  of  my  offending  meted 
out  to  me.  I  deserve  what  I  have  got.  She  ought  to 
hate  me." 

"Owen,  she  doesn't  know.  I  tell  you  this,  as  it  may 
make  you  happier.  I  never  told  her — I  was  afraid 
of  breaking  her  heart.  She  still  thinks  you  are  true 
to  her — that  you  will  return.  I  deceived  her — for  her 
own  sake." 

There  was  a  pause.  Owen  turned  his  head  upon 
the  pillow — his  brain  was  slow  to  absorb  Robin's 
words. 

"Is  this  true?"  he  murmured  faintly. 

"It  is  God's  truth!  Lavender  loves  you — believes 
in  you." 

"Then  she  need  never  know.    She  will  mourn  for  me 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

without  knowing  me  for  the  scoundrel  I  am.  Robin, 
how  can  I  thank  you?" 

He  lay  quite  still  for  a  few  minutes,  but  his  lips 
moved,  and  Robin,  bending  over  him,  could  distin- 
guish a  few  words  of  what  he  muttered.  It  seemed 
as  if  his  mind  was  wandering.  His  eyes  were  closed. 

"The  statue  in  the  wood — the  old  legend — we  looked 
upon  it  together  when  we  plighted  troth — when  we 
first  kissed.  It  was  an  evil  omen — she  said  so.  And 
it  has  come  about — like  the  story.  The  lover  was 
false — but  she  never  knew — she  never  knew!  Killed 
in  a  duel — God!  haven't  I  been  fighting  a  duel — with 
myself?  She  gazed  upon  his  dead  body — let  Lavender 
gaze  upon  mine !  But  she  never  knew !" 

Presently  Owen  re-opened  his  eyes  and  spoke  more 
normally.  "You've  been  good  to  me,  Robin,  and  I 
hope  you  may  be  repaid  as  you  deserve.  Teach  Lav- 
ender to  love  you — win  her  for  yourself.  She  will 
turn  to  you  in  time,  when  she  has  ceased  to  mourn 
for  one  who  was  not  worthy  of  her  tears.  But  keep 
the  truth  from  her  to  the  end — if  you  can." 

"Shall  I  send  for  her,  Owen?" 

The  dying  man  shook  his  head  weakly.  "Not  till 
I  am  dead.  Would  you  have  her  hear  the  name  of 
Zelie  upon  my  lips,  meet  Zelie  herself,  perhaps  ?  No" 
— a  smile  parted  his  lips — "let  me  die  happy  in  the 
knowledge  that  my  wife  cares  for  me — that  she  came 
when  I  called  her — that  she  will  be  here  to-morrow — 
for  I'll  live  through  the  night,  that  my  eyes  may  feast 
upon  her  face  once  more — that  she  will  be  here  to  kiss 
me  again  before  I  go  to  the  unknown.  Ah!  the  kiss 
of  Zelie — the  kiss  of  Zelie!" 

"God!  may  he  die  before  dawn!"  Robin  breathed 
the  prayer  from  the  depth  of  his  heart,  breathed  it  for 
his  dying  friend's  sake. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  307 

And  it  was  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night  that 
the  end  came.  Owen  was  unconscious  for  hours  be- 
fore he  breathed  his  last.  Robin  hardly  stirred  from 
the  bedside. 

There  was  no  suffering.  Owen  seemed  lost  in  a 
happy  dream.  There  was  a  smile  upon  his  lips  as 
he  babbled  of  bygone  days,  days  when  the  world  had 
smiled  upon  him,  when  the  future  was  bright  with 
promise. 

And  then  it  seemed  as  if  Zelie  came  to  him,  as  if 
she  were  stooping  over  him.  Owen  lifted  his  feeble 
arms  and  in  imagination  he  seemed  to  be  clasping  her 
to  his  breast — no  doubt  her  lips  were  pressed  to  his 
— and  death  bestowed  upon  him  that  which  life  had 
denied — the  kiss  of  Zelie. 

He  died  with  that  name  upon  his  lips. 

"It  is  the  end,"  said  the  sister.    "The  end  is  peace." 

Robin  bowed  his  head,  and  tears  brimmed  in  his 
eyes.  "She  has  done  her  worst,"  he  muttered.  "The 
vampire  woman  has  claimed  her  prey." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THERE  was  an  inquest,  of  course,  but  it  revealed  noth- 
ing of  the  inner  tragedy  of  Owen  Mayne's  life.  A 
comparatively  unknown  young  artist  had  given  way 
to  the  temptation  of  drink  and  drugs,  and  had  thrown 
himself  out  of  a  window  in  an  access  of  frenzy — that 
was  all  that  the  world  need  know. 

That  he  was  scarred  by  the  panther's  claw,  that  it 
was  his  wild,  insatiable  passion  for  Zelie  which  had  led 
to  his  death — that  she  was  actually  his  wife — besides 
Zelie  herself,  who  naturally  maintained  silence,  Robin 
was  the  only  living  being  acquainted  with  the  actual 
facts.  And  dearly  as  he  would  have  loved  to  hold  this 
"snake  woman"  up  to  public  ignominy,  he  held  his 
tongue — for  Lavender's  sake. 

Had  he  been  able,  he  would  have  spared  her  the 
knowledge  of  Owen's  fall  into  evil  habits  as  well — 
the  degrading  circumstances  of  his  death.  He  would 
have  played  his  drama  of  kindly  deception  to  the  end. 
But  the  publicity  of  the  inquest  prevented  this.  Lav- 
ender was  bound  to  learn  that  the  man  she  loved,  and 
whom  she  believed  to  have  been  working  to  gain  an 
honourable  position  for  her  sake,  had  given  himself 
up  to  the  craving  for  insidious  poisons. 

But  beyond  this  her  knowledge  did  not  extend. 
Robin  saw  to  it  that  Lavender  should  not  suspect  her 
dead  lover  of  further  deception.  For  this  purpose  he 
actually  travelled  to  Paris,  telling  Lavender  that  the 
journey  was  necessary  for  the  settling  of  Owen's  af- 
fairs. He  returned  with  a  glowing  account  of  the 
work — wholly  imaginary — which  Owen  was  supposed 

308 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  309 

to  have  accomplished,  and  he  expended  all  his  ready 
money  in  hunting  up  and  purchasing  some  of  the 
signed  sketches  and  pictures  which  his  late  friend  had 
disposed  of,  and  these  he  brought  back  to  Lavender 
in  proof  of  his  assertion. 

The  girl  never  doubted  the  genuineness  of  the  let- 
ters she  had  received.  By  a  fortuitous  circumstance, 
Owen  had  only  just  moved  into  the  rooms  where  he 
met  with  his  death,  and  no  reference  was  made  at  the 
inquest  as  to  where  he  had  lived  prior  to  this.  Also 
Robin  in  his  letters  had  always  represented  Owen  as 
journeying  frequently  to  and  fro  between  Paris  and 
London. 

Lavender  was  prostrated  with  grief,  and  for  some 
days  after  the  funeral,  a  quiet  funeral,  at  which  there 
were  no  other  mourners  than  herself  and  Robin,  she 
was  in  danger  of  falling  seriously  ill.  For  as  long  as 
he  lived  Robin  would  never  forget  the  scene  when 
the  girl,  summoned  to  London  by  telegram,  stood  at 
the  bedside  of  the  dead  man  and  gazed  dry-eyed  upon 
the  face  that  had  regained  its  beauty  in  death.  He 
had  heard  the  legend  of  the  statue  in  the  wood,  and 
had  understood  Owen's  allusion  to  it. 

"She  never  knew  that  her  lover  was  false."  The 
words  impressed  themselves  upon  his  brain  as  he 
marked  the  horror  and  despair,  the  sense  of  irremedi- 
able loss,  which  the  girl's  eyes  expressed. 

"How  she  loved  him!"  Robin  felt  then,  more  than 
ever  before,  the  hopelessness  of  his  own  love.  And 
there  would  be  no  more  letters  to  write — never  again 
could  he  pour  out  his  soul  in  those  passionate  effusions 
which  had  become  so  strangely  dear  to  him. 

A  week  after  the  funeral  Mrs.  Foxhall  took  Lav- 
ender back  to  Selwood.  It  was  then  that  Robin  went 
to  Paris,  where  he  stayed  some  eight  days.  Upon 


310  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

the  day  of  his  return  to  London — he  had  travelled  by 
night — he  met  Lord  Martyn  in  Piccadilly. 

They  lunched  together  at  a  club.  Robin  marvelled 
at  the  change  which  had  come  over  his  companion. 
Martyn  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  had  suf- 
fered some  deep  and  abiding  sorrow.  He  had  lost 
his  easy  cynicism,  his  nonchalant  laissez-aller  of  man- 
ner. He  sat  with  his  broad  shoulders  hunched,  and 
his  cheeks  were  sallow — as  if  his  splendid  health  had 
given  way.  He  ate  but  sparingly. 

He  questioned  Robin  about  Owen's  death.  "I  have 
my  suspicions  that  he,  too,  may  have  been  a  victim 
of  that  worker  of  evil,  Zelie.  She  first  came  to  Eng- 
land looking  for  him.  I  saw  them  together  at  Selwood. 
Am  I  right,  Clithero?" 

Robin  admitted  the  fact  without  revealing  the  secret 
of  the  actual  relationship.  "She  killed  him,"  he  said 
between  his  clenched  teeth.  "But  Miss  Percivale 
doesn't  know  this — I  trust  she  never  may." 

"Another  victim  of  the  panther!"  Martyn  rested 
his  head  wearily  upon  his  hand.  "Another  death  to 
my  score — for  I  feel  myself  responsible  for  all  this, 
Clithero.  It  was  I  who  set  the  wild  beast  free,  to  tear 
and  rend  and  devour.  Where  will  it  end — God !  where 
will  it  end?" 

His  burden  was  heavy  upon  him.  Robin,  who  did 
not  know  the  full  intensity  of  that  burden,  could  find 
no  words  of  comfort. 

"Do  you  know  what  she  has  done?"  Martyn  leant 
forward  over  the  table,  speaking  with  the  utmost  in- 
tensity. He  had  endured  his  sorrow  in  silence  so  long 
— it  was  a  relief  to  pour  out  his  soul  to  sympathetic 
ears.  "There  is  one  being  in  the  world  I  love — my 
god-daughter,  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer.  You  know  her. 
She  was  engaged  to  a  man  whom  she  loves,  and  who 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  311 

loves  her — Donald  Ransom.  I'll  swear  that  he  loves 
her  still,  in  spite  of  all.  But  Zelie  has  infatuated  him 
— has  made  him  false  to  his  vows.  He  has  broken 
the  engagement  definitely,  alleging  some  feeble  excuse 
— a  silly  letter  or  so  which  Beatrice  penned  to  another 
man  when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child — just  a 
schoolgirl  freak.  The  letters  were  brought  to  him 
by  a  blackmailer — instigated,  I'll  swear,  by  Zelie  her- 
self. And  now — I've  only  heard  it  to-day — Donald 
has  declared  his  intention  of  making  Zelie  his  wife! 
Think  of  it !  My  God !  It  will  break  Beatrice's  heart !" 

Lord  Martyn  broke  off,  and  there  was  a  hoarse 
sound  in  his  throat  that  was  like  a  groan.  He  was 
suffering — suffering  acutely — his  brain  on  the  rack. 

"And  I  can  do  nothing — nothing,"  he  resumed. 
"That's  the  hell  into  which  I  have  been  thrust — my 
punishment.  I,  who  set  the  panther  free,  must  stand 
by  and  watch  while  the  living,  bleeding  hearts  are 
torn  from  the  breasts  of  those  I  care  for.  Stephen 
Aldis — he  was  my  friend — Mayne,  too— and  there  is 
poor  Cecily  Cuthbert  languishing  in  prison,  a  self- 
avowed  murderess.  They  say  that  her  mind  is  giving 
way.  Beatrice — this  trouble  will  kill  her,  I  tell  you — 
and  Donald — he  is  not  to  blame  because  he  has  fallen 
prey  to  an  enchantress — but  she  will  throw  him  over 
when  she  has  tired  of  him,  or  if  she  holds  him  to  her 
— if  she  really  loves,  as  she  pretends,  it  will  be  worse 
for  him,  far  worse.  His  fate  is  sealed.  But  Zelie 
goes  on  triumphing,  battening  on  the  blood  of  her  vic- 
tims, and  I — I  am  powerless!" 

Lord  Martyn  gulped  down  a  glass  of  brandy  which 
he  had  ordered,  and  which  had  just  been  set  before 
him.  It  was  the  mellowest  "fine  champagne" — a 
brandy  that  was  the  boast  of  the  club — and  at  ordinary 
times  Martyn  would  have  sipped  it  delicately,  enjoy- 


312  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

ing  its  bouquet  and  rare  savour  with  the  palate  of  a 
connoisseur,  but  now  it  was  not  the  taste  of  it  that  he 
required — it  was  because  his  nerves  were  unstrung, 
and  all  on  edge,  that  he  committed  what  he  himself 
a  short  while  ago  would  have  been  the  first  to  con- 
demn as  little  less  than  a  crime. 

He  found  a  sympathetic  listener  in  Robin — Robin 
who  hated  Zelie  as  much  as  it  was  in  his  power  to 
hate  any  living  being.  And  Martyn  grew  calmer  after 
a  few  moments,  something  of  his  old  mastery,  his  dis- 
dain of  difficulties,  returning  to  him.  Had  he  not 
fought  his  way  through  life  when  there  were  over- 
whelming odds  against  him,  so  should  he  acknowledge 
himself  beaten  now — beaten  by  a  woman  ? 

"Thank  heaven,  the  season  is  at  an  end,  and  Zelie 
is  going  away  to  America.  Let  them  keep  her  there. 
The  British  public  is  fickle,  and  there  will  be  a  new 
favourite  by  the  winter.  I'll  see  to  that  myself.  I'll 
crush  this  monster  I  let  loose — I'll  crush  her  yet !" 

He  struck  the  table  with  his  clenched  fists — large, 
powerful  fists — so  that  the  glass  rattled.  "I'll  drive 
her  back  to  the  gutter!"  he  declared. 

Robin,  having  been  away  in  Paris,  was  not  ac- 
quainted with  all  that  had  happened  during  his  ab- 
sence. He  had  been  too  busy  to  study  the  English 
newspapers.  So  it  was  now,  from  Lord  Martyn's  lips, 
that  he  learned  the  final  result  of  the  trial  of  Bibi 
Coupe-vide.  Bibi  had  been  found  not  guilty,  and  dis- 
charged. It  was  shown  without  a  doubt  that  the  knife 
with  which  Aldis  had  been  killed  was  the  property  of 
Cecily  Cuthbert.  The  story  she  told  against  herself 
was  further  corroborated  by  the  discovery  of  blood- 
stains upon  the  gown  she  had  worn  that  fatal  night, 
and  by  her  wild  demeanour  when  she  was  seen  rush- 
ing back  to  the  house  and  locking  herself  in  her  room 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  313 

at  a  time  which  tallied  exactly  with  that  which  the 
police  and  the  doctors  had  set  down — allowing  for 
her  flight  from  the  summer-house  after  the  committal 
of  the  crime. 

And  she  persisted  in  the  truth  of  her  self-condemna- 
tion. "I  was  mad  with  jealousy,"  she  declared.  "I 
loved  Stephen  Aldis,  and  believed  that  he  loved  me, 
too.  He  was  always  good  to  me.  Then  came  that 
witch — Zelie — and  won  him  from  me.  There  were 
passionate  scenes,  and  Stephen  cast  me  off.  I  goaded 
him  to  fury — I  know  it.  Then  some  evil  spirit  awoke 
within  me,  and  I  vowed  that  no  other  woman  should 
know  the  kisses  of  his  lips.  The  sight  of  Zelie  drove 
me  mad,  for  I  hated  her — oh !  how  I  hated  her !  That 
night — in  the  arbour — I  thought  I  had  won  Stephen 
back — but  I  hadn't — he  had  been  drinking,  and  he  in- 
sulted me — he  didn't  know  what  he  said.  I  ran  away, 
sobbing,  but  I  lurked  close  by.  And  then  came  Zelie 
— I  saw  them  together.  I  saw  him  take  her  in  his 
arms — I  saw  him  stoop  to  kiss  her — my  blood  was  on 
fire.  She  tore  herself  away — I  think  she  laughed — 
and  he  stood  there  at  the  door  of  the  arbour  alone. 
I  pressed  my  hands  to  my  breast,  and  I  felt  the  handle 
of  the  knife — I  don't  know  why  it  was  there,  but  I 
think  I  had  some  idea  of  killing  myself  if  Stephen 
was  cruel  to  me  that  night.  And  then  a  mist  came 
before  my  eyes,  and  something  within  me  said,  'Strike ! 
strike!'  I  couldn't  resist  it — I  struck — the  blow  fell 
before  he  even  realised  that  I  was  there — and  it  was 
just  as  if  the  dagger  sunk  into  my  own  heart.  Then 
I  heard  footsteps,  and  I  fled  back  madly  to  the  house." 

Zelie  herself  was  called,  and  corroborated  this  state- 
ment, so  far  as  her  own  presence  in  the  summer-house 
was  concerned.  She  had  wandered  into  the  garden 
with  a  friend — the  now  deceased  Owen  Mayne — and 


314  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

had  sent  him  back  to  the  castle  for  a  wrap.  While 
waiting  for  him  she  had  accidentally  found  her  way 
to  the  arbour  and  had  been  surprised  there  by  Stephen 
Aldis,  who  had  attempted  to  kiss  her.  He  had  been 
drinking,  and  she  was  afraid  of  him.  She  had  con- 
trived to  free  herself  from  him  and  had  run  away. 
She  knew  nothing  of  what  happened  after  that.  It 
was  not  true  that  she  had  ever  wilfully  sought  to  win 
the  actor's  affection;  she  had  merely  regarded  him 
as  a  friend;  in  fact,  their  acquaintance  had  been  of 
very  short  duration. 

Upon  this  evidence  there  was  nothing  'for  it  but  to 
acquit  Bibi,  and  acquitted  he  accordingly  was.  Cecily 
Cuthbert  was  put  back  to  stand  her  trial  for  the  mur- 
der of  Stephen  Aldis,  but  it  was  now  reported  that 
she  had  broken  down  and  showed  signs  of  an  unhinged 
mind. 

And  to  Zelie  it  had  meant  nothing  but  advertise- 
ment. She  had  committed  no  act  for  which  the  public 
could  condemn  her.  On  the  contrary,  they  flocked 
to  see  her,  and  the  Star  Theatre  was  reaping  a  harvest 
such  as  it  had  never  known. 

"Radcliffe  chuckles  whenever  we  meet,"  said  Mar- 
tyn  between  his  clenched  teeth,  "and  blesses  me  by  all 
his  gods.  And  do  you  know  what  he  has  done  now? 
He  has  engaged  Bibi  to  dance  with  Zelie  for  the  last 
week  of  the  season.  They  start  to-night.  I  under- 
stand the  demand  for  seats  has  been  enormous,  past 
all  precedent.  It  is  hateful,  hideous  beyond  words; 
but  Radcliffe  knows  his  business,  which  means  that 
he  knows  the  world." 

A  little  later,  as  the  two  men  sat  in  the  smoking- 
room,  with  coffee  and  cigars,  a  telegram  was  brought 
to  Lord  Martyn.  His  cheeks,  sallow  already,  paled 
as  he  read  the  missive. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  315 

"It  is  from  Lady  Beatrice,"  he  said.  "She  begs  me 
to  come  to  her  at  once.  I — I'm  afraid  there's  some- 
thing wrong,  Clithero." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  rose.  His  fingers 
kept  closing  and  unclosing  upon  the  pink  paper.  He 
forced  a  smile.  "Of  course  it  must  be  all  right,"  he 
muttered ;  "why,  she's  sent  the  telegram  herself.  For- 
give me,  Clithero,  I'm  nervous  to-day — out  of  sorts. 
But  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  leave  you?  I'm  glad  we  met 
and  have  had  a  talk." 

They  passed  out  into  the  street  together.  Here 
Martyn  hailed  a  taxi-cab,  gave  a  hurried  direction 
to  the  driver,  shook  Robin's  hand,  and  was  gone. 

Robin  had  business  of  his  own  to  attend  to,  busi- 
ness which  occupied  him  the  best  part  of  the  afternoon. 
It  was  eight  o'clock  before  he  returned  to  the  rooms 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Russell  Square,  where  he 
always  stayed  when  in  town. 

•  He  had  been  making  his  preparations  for  leaving 
England  once  and  for  ever.  He  was  quite  sure  that 
it  was  wisest  for  him  to  do  so.  To  live  on  at  Selwood 
was  an  impossibility — he  would  have  no  rest,  no  ease 
of  mind,  while  seeing  Lavender  day  after  day.  Life 
would  be  one  long  torture  for  him.  He  had  performed 
his  duty — and  now  he  must  do  his  utmost  to  forget. 
Let  him  go  back  to  the  memory  of  his  dead  love — 
the  love  of  that  sweet  ghost  who  had  been  his  con- 
stant companion  till  he  met  Lavender — when  she  had 
left  him,  as  it  seemed  to  Robin,  with  a  faint  kiss  upon 
his  brow,  as  though  she  were  content.  And  yet  that 
was  a  mistake — for  there  could  be  no  warm,  living 
love  for  Robin.  Yes,  he  must  go  away. 

He  ordered  some  dinner — anything  that  was  going 
— it  didn't  matter.  The  dinner  was  brought  to  him, 
together  with  a  letter.  The  letter  was  from  Lavender, 


316  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

and  as  Robin  read  it  he  breathed  hard,  and  deep  colour 
mantled  his  cheeks.  He  pushed  his  food  away  almost 
untouched. 

Lavender  wanted  him.  That  was  the  purport  of 
her  letter.  She  had  heard  from  his  landlady  at  the 
cottage  that  he  meditated  leaving  Selwood  altogether. 
Why  should  he  do  so?  Why  should  he  want  to  take 
himself  out  of  her  life — she  was  so  alone  and  friend- 
less? She  begged  him  in  pretty  phrases,  which  evi- 
dently came  straight  from  her  sad  heart,  to  reconsider 
his  decision. 

And  after  this  there  could  be  no  hesitation  on 
Robin's  part.  Lavender  wanted  him — that  was  enough. 
"Go  to  her!"  he  cried  fervently.  "Of  course  I'll  go 
to  her — I  won't  wait.  I'll  go  back  to  Selwood  to- 
morrow." 

His  cheeks  burned,  the  blood  seemed  on  fire  in  his 
veins.  He  clasped  his  hands  in  the  attitude  of  prayer. 
"Oh!  my  love!"  he  cried,  "if  you  could  but  love  me, 
too — not  of  the  fullness  of  your  heart — I  don't  ask 
for  that  which  you  could  never  bestow  again — but 
of  your  sympathy  and  kindness — because  I,  like  your- 
self, have  loved  and  lost!" 

Then,  as  he  spoke  the  words  aloud,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  that  gentle  spirit,  whose  face  was  like  the 
face  of  Lavender,  came  back  once  more,  bent  over 
him,  and  whispered  in  his  ear — whispered  of  hope  and 
courage  and  love.  "Be  of  good  heart — go  to  her — 
she  wants  you." 

And  so  Robin  set  himself  to  write  a  letter  to  Lav- 
ender in  which  he  told  her  that  he  would  return  to 
Selwood  no  later  than  the  next  day,  and  his  pen 
seemed  to  glide  over  the  paper,  words  formed  them- 
selves, and  he  found  an  eloquence  of  phrasing  of  which 
he  could  hardly  have  believed  himself  capable. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  317 

This  was  the  first  letter  that  he  had  ever  written 
in  his  own  name  to  Lavender.  How  glad  he  was  that 
he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  disguise  his  handwrit- 
ing when  he  penned  those  missives  which  professed 
to  come  from  Owen! 

He  took  the  letter  to  the  post  himself,  and  when 
he  returned  it  was  to  find  a  visitor  awaiting  him. 
Lord  Martyn,  his  face  pallid  and  white  as  the  dead, 
rose  from  a  chair  as  Robin  entered  his  sitting-room, 
and  tottered  rather  than  walked  towards  him. 

"She's  dead,  Clithero !"  Martyn  gasped.  "My  sweet, 
innocent  child,  my  Beatrice!  She  has  fallen  victim, 
too!  Dead — dead — dead!"  The  words  came  in  a  de- 
spairing wail. 

"My  God,  man!  Is  it  true?"  Robin's  own  happi- 
ness was  thrust  aside.  He  was  all  sympathy  for  the 
sorrow  of  his  friend. 

"True?  Yes,  it's  true.  She  took  poison  after  send- 
ing that  telegram  to  me.  She  had  been  in  a  morbid, 
melancholic  condition  for  days.  I  was  afraid  for 
her,  but  her  stepmother  didn't  seem  to  realise  the 
danger.  Plenty  of  marriages  get  broken  off,  she  said, 
and  girls  don't  die  of  broken  hearts  nowadays.  But 
they  do,  they  may  kill  themselves.  Clithero,  she  died 
at  once — she  was  dead  before  I  reached  the  house." 

The  strong  man  sank  down  into  a  chair  and  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands.  His  agony  was  appalling  to 
witness.  Sobs  shook  his  heavy  frame.  The  claws  of 
the  panther  were  at  his  heart. 

At  last  he  lifted  his  head.  "You  wonder  to  see 
me  suffering  like  this?"  he  muttered.  "Clithero,  I'll 
tell  you  the  truth — a  secret  that  has  never  been 
breathed  to  living  soul.  Beatrice  was  my  daughter — 
my  own  child!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

BIBI  COUPE-VIDE,  attired  in  the  conventional  Apache 
costume,  ready  to  go  on  the  stage,  confronted  Zelie 
with  sombre,  menacing  eyes.  He  had  forced  his  pres- 
ence upon  her  as  she  herself  completed  her  theatre 
toilette. 

"Is  this  true  what  I  have  been  told  of  you,  Zelie, 
ma  gosse?"  he  inquired.  "I  want  to  know." 

"What?"  She  turned  with  an  impatient  gesture. 
She  was  busy  painting  her  lips. 

"That  you  are  going  to  marry  an  Englishman — 
this  Sir  Donald  Ransom,  whom  I  have  seen  you  with? 
He  brought  you  to  the  theatre  to-night.  He  kissed 
you  at  the  stage  door.  I  saw  it — yes,  with  my  own 
eyes  I  saw  it." 

Zelie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  did  not  wish  to 
be  bothered.  It  was  not  by  her  desire  that  Bibi  was 
dancing  at  the  Star  Theatre  that  night.  Indeed,  after 
his  acquittal,  she  had  done  her  utmost  to  induce  him 
to  leave  the  country.  She  had,  as  usual,  been  gen- 
erous with  promises  which  she  had  no  intention  of 
keeping.  She  had  given  him  money — almost  lavishly 
— as  an  inducement,  and  as  a  sort  of  indication  of 
what  she  would  do  in  that  indefinite  future  when  she 
and  her  petit  homme — the  endearing  term  which  still 
came  easily  to  her  lips — should  be  reunited. 

Bibi  had  taken  the  gold,  and  seemed  disposed  to 
fall  in  with  her  proposals.  He  was  sick  of  England 
— a  dirty  country,  where  innocent  men,  like  himself, 

318 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  319 

could  be  thrown  into  prison,  and  even  be  threatened 
with  their  lives.  Then  he  had  had  trouble  with  Al- 
phonse  Lereux,  who,  it  appeared,  had  made  free  with 
the  remaining  two  incriminating  letters  which  Bibi 
had  looked  to  for  putting  himself  in  funds.  Lereux 
had  taken  the  high  hand,  threatening  certain  revela- 
tions concerning  a  violent  assault  upon  a  night  porter 
at  the  Northumberland  Hotel,  revelations  which  might 
send  Bibi  back  to  the  prison  from  which  he  had  come 
— and  Bibi  had  had  quite  enough  of  that  prison. 

So  Bibi  would  have  returned  quietly  to  Paris  had 
not  Mr.  Radcliffe  appeared  upon  the  scene  with  the 
offer  of  a  brief  engagement  at  the  Star  Theatre  at  a 
salary  which  was  quite  sufficient  to  ensure  an  imme- 
diate acceptance.  Zelie  had  objected,  but  her  greedy 
soul  yielded  to  the  inducement  of  a  proportionate  in- 
crease to  her  own  salary.  It  really  didn't  matter 
very  much  that  Bibi  should  remain  in  London  for  an- 
other week. 

Nevertheless,  in  her  heart  of  hearts  Zelie  wished 
that  Bibi  had  been  convicted  and  hanged.  Then  he 
would  have  been  out  of  her  way  once  and  for  all, 
cleared  from  her  path  as  Owen  Mayne  already  was. 

It  was  quite  true  that  she  had  promised  to  marry 
Sir  Donald  Ransom.  She  was  free  to  do  so  now.  He 
was  infatuated  with  her,  and  for  her  sake  had  thrown 
honour  to  the  winds.  But  this  had  not  been  without 
a  struggle  on  Zelie's  part.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  really  loved — the  handsome  young  explorer 
had  touched  her  heart  as  no  other  man  had  ever  been 
able  to  touch  it.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  win 
him  for  herself  alone,  and  had  deliberately  set  about 
doing  so.  She  was  utterly  callous  as  to  the  pain  she 
might  inflict  upon  Lady  Beatrice;  what  did  Lady 
Beatrice — or  any  woman — matter  to  her?  The  only 


320  TWO  APACHES  OF.  PARIS 

impelling  factor  in  Zelie's  breast  was  the  primitive  in- 
stinct of  fighting  for  what  she  herself  desired.  And 
Sir  Donald,  a  strong  man  among  men,  had  been  wax 
in  the  hands  of  the  enchantress,  woman. 

And  now  Bibi  was  manifesting  an  inclination  to 
make  himself  a  nuisance.  It  was  that  jealousy  of  his 
— that  peculiar  description  of  jealousy  which  is  typi- 
cal of  his  kind.  Your  Apache  does  not  mind  "affairs" 
— intrigues — in  which  his  womankind  are  concerned, 
for  they  are  likely  to  be  remunerative  to  himself,  but 
there  must  be  no  talk  of  love,  the  "affair"  must  not 
be  one  of  the  heart.  Therein  lies  the  distinction,  the 
one  point  that  counts. 

Zelie  had  vowed  to  Bibi  that  love  had  played  no 
part,  should  play  no  part  in  her  schemes,  and  he  had 
believed  her.  To  whatever  height  she  may  have  raised 
herself  she  was  still  la  gosse  a  Bibi!  Or  so  he  had 
believed  until  that  day,  when  some  French  employe 
at  the  theatre  had  told  him  of  the  rumour  that  the 
dancing  girl  was  going  to  marry  the  handsome  Eng- 
lishman who  occupied  a  stage-box  every  night  that 
she  performed,  and  with  whom — one  could  tell  it  from 
the  way  she  looked  at  him — she  was  madly  in  love. 
Bibi  had  watched  for  himself  after  that,  and  he  had 
seen  enough  to  make  his  heart  beat  wrathfully  within 
him. 

Hence  he  had  confronted  her  with  a  direct  accusa- 
tion. And  now  Zelie  only  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
regarded  him  scornfully.  There  was  a  smile  of  disdain 
upon  her  painted  lips. 

She  was  not  going  to  take  the  trouble  to  lie  to  him 
any  more.  She  was  filled  that  night  with  a  sense  of 
delirious  elation,  of  realised  power.  For  Donald  had 
yielded  to  all  that  she  desired ;  he  had  inserted  a  notice 
in  the  papers  that  his  engagement  to  Lady  Beatrice 


TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS  321 

Clewer  was  definitely  at  an  end.  And  she,  on  her 
side,  was  ready  to  repay  him — at  last — for  the  sacri- 
fices he  had  made  on  her  behalf.  She  had  whispered 
her  promise  in  his  ear  that  evening  when  he  left  her 
at  the  stage-door — a  promise  ratified  by  a  kiss,  that 
kiss  of  which  Bibi  Coupe-vide  had  been  witness. 

Why  should  she  worry  her  head  about  such  scum 
as  Bibi  at  such  a  time?  Let  him  have  the  truth,  since 
he  forced  her  to  speak.  She  was  proud  of  the  avowal. 

"Answer  me,"  he  said  roughly,  taking  a  step  for- 
ward. 

Zelie  drew  herself  up,  and  Bibi  was  constrained  to 
realise  that  this  was  not  the  same  Zelie  whom,  at  one 
time,  he  had  been  able  to  bully  after  the  manner  of  his 
class — who  expected  nothing  better.  He  was  thick- 
skinned,  had  all  the  brutality  of  his  ignorance,  but  her 
scorn  lashed  him  till  he  writhed. 

"Flf  answer  you  fast  enough,"  she  retorted.  "Don't 
think  that  I'm  afraid.  You  dare  not  strike  me  now 
as  you  did  in  the  past.  I'd  have  you  taken  by  your 
shoulders  and  thrown  out  into  the  street.  I  have  but 
to  ring  the  bell" — she  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
touched  it — "and  they  would  come  at  once." 

Bibi's  eyes  contracted  to  mere  slits,  but  he  made  no 
further  threatening  gesture.  "Go  on !"  he  growled. 

"You  ask  me  if  I  am  going  to  marry  this  English- 
man," Zelie  resumed,  "and  I  answer  'Yes.'  Why  am 
I  going  to  marry  him?  Because  I  love  him."  She 
rested  her  hands  on  her  hips,  and  her  black  eyes 
sparkled  and  glowed.  "Do  I  speak  clearly?  Do  you 
understand  me?  It's  because  I  love  him.  I  shall  give 
myself  to  him — for  love.  And  the  blood  is  dancing  in 
my  veins — my  senses  are  on  fire — because  I  am  long- 
ing for  his  kisses  on  my  lips.  You  saw  him  kiss  them 
— but  he  shall  kiss  again  when  you  do  not  see — soon — 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

very  soon — not  the  kiss  that  a  man  gives  a  woman  in 
the  street — at  the  stage  door,  as  you  saw  it — ah!  no. 
There,  have  I  said  enough?" 

She  was  speaking  to  wound,  to  sting.  She  had  for- 
gotten her  discretion — the  need  for  it  with  such  a  man 
as  Bibi  Coupe-vide.  Love  was  new  to  her — real  love 
— and  to  her  savage,  untamed  nature  it  seemed  right 
to  proclaim  her  love,  to  make  no  secret  of  it.  Besides, 
Bibi  had  goaded  her  to  the  avowal  by  the  very  ab- 
surdity of  his  claims  upon  her — Bibi  Coupe-vide  and 
Sir  Donald  Ransom,  could  they  be  mentioned  together 
in  the  same  breath? 

Bibi  recoiled,  and  his  head  seemed  to  sink  between 
his  shoulders.  "You  mean  that?  It's  true?" 

"Why  should  I  say  it  if  it  were  not  true?" 

"Then  you  lied  to  me  when  you  spoke  of  our  being 
united  again  in  Paris — one  day?" 

"Yes,  I  lied  to  you."  Zelie  spoke  with  insolent  care- 
lessness. "After  this  week,  when  your  engagement 
ends,  I  hope  I  may  never  look  upon  your  ugly  face 
again.  I  loathe  the  sight  of  it !  I  hate  you !" 

Bibzi  crouched,  and  for  a  moment  he  appeared  like 
a  wild  beast  about  to  spring.  Zelie's  hand  went  to  the 
bell.  There  was  a  look  in  Bibi's  eyes  which,  despite 
her  arrogant  elation  of  spirit,  sent  a  cold  shudder  down 
her  spine.  She  wished  that  she  had  been  more  dis- 
creet ;  this  man,  like  all  his  sex,  might  have  been  quite 
easily  managed  if  she  had  gone  the  right  way  about  it. 

Her  dresser  appeared  almost  immediately.  Bibi 
pulled  himself  together,  standing  in  his  usual  slouch- 
ing attitude.  The  scowl  upon  his  face  appeared  natural 
to  him. 

"You  must  go  now,  mon  ami,"  said  Zelie  in  a  suave 
tone  of  voice.  "I  must  finish  my  toilette.  We  meet 
again  upon  the  stage." 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  323 

"Yes,  we  meet  again,"  mumbled  the  man.  He  re- 
garded her  for  a  moment  from  under  his  dark  brows, 
then  without  another  word  he  shuffled  from  the  room. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Robin  Clithero  and  Lord  Mar- 
tyn  were  making  their  way  to  the  Star  Theatre.  Zelie 
did  not  appear  till  about  half-past  ten  o'clock,  and 
it  yet  wanted  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  that  time.  Mar- 
tyn  had  declared  his  intention  of  standing  up  and  pub- 
licly denouncing  the  dancer,  and  nothing  that  Robin 
could  say  would  make  him  swerve  from  this  decision. 
So  Robin  had  quickly  decided  to  stand  by  his  friend 
and  support  him  through  the  inevitable  scene  that  must 
ensue. 

It  was  madness — sheer  madness,  of  course — but 
Robin  understood  the  state  of  mind  into  which  Martyn 
had  been  thrown.  The  secret,  so  long  kept,  had  been 
revealed  to  him.  Lady  Beatrice  Clewer,  lying  dead  by 
her  own  hand,  was  Martyn's  child,  his  daughter. 

The  story  was  a  romance,  and  it  was  told  in  broken 
tones,  so  that  Robin  had  to  exercise  his  intellect  to 
put  two  and  two  together.  He  gathered,  however, 
that  Beatrice's  mother  was  not  in  reality  the  wife  of 
the  Earl  of  Albyn — as  Beatrice  and  the  earl  himself 
had  always  supposed — nor  had  the  earl  ever  had  a 
living  child  of  his  own. 

Beatrice  was  the  daughter  of  Lord  Martyn  and  of 
a  beautiful  French  girl,  whose  station  in  life  was  so 
high  that  any  alliance  between  her  and  the  young  Eng- 
lishman, who  had  not  then  succeeded  to  the  title,  nor 
had  any  expectation  of  doing  so,  was  utterly  out  of 
the  question.  Fondly  as  they  loved  each  other,  they 
might  not  marry.  Here  was  the  beginning  of  Martyn's 
grudge  against  society — against  mankind  at  large. 

They  loved  in  secret.  Finally  they  agreed  to  elope 
together,  disastrous  as  the  consequences  might  be. 


TWO   APACHES  OF  PARIS 

There  was  a  reason  which  made  this  course  necessary. 
Unfortunately,  Martyn  was  taken  ill,  and  lay  for  many 
weeks  at  the  point  of  death.  His  recovery  was  de- 
spaired of. 

While  he  lay  helpless  thus  Beatrice  made  her  ap- 
pearance in  the  world — a  child  of  sorrow,  all  the  more 
so  since  her  birth  cost  her  mother's  life.  The  tragedy 
had  to  be  hushed  up,  and  the  question  arose  what  was 
to  be  done  with  the  waif  of  humanity  that  might 
threaten  the  good  name  of  a  distinguished  .family.  The 
mother  was  dead,  the  father  not  expected  to  recover. 

It  happened  that  Lady  Albyn  had  just  given  birth 
to  a  still-born  daughter.  The  earl  was  away  from 
home  at  the  time.  His  passionate  desire  for  a  child 
was  well  known  to  the  family  to  which  Beatrice's 
mother  belonged.  They  approached  the  countess  with 
a  scheme  of  substitution,  a  scheme  that  was  eagerly 
accepted.  There  were  but  few  who  knew  the  facts, 
and  they  were  bound  to  secrecy. 

Martyn  himself  would  never  have  known  of  what 
had  been  done  had  not  a  hot-headed  brother  of  the 
dead  girl  revealed  the  truth  to  the  Englishman  upon 
his  recovery  from  his  illness.  A  duel  was  the  con- 
sequence— a  duel  in  which  Martyn  shot  in  the  air,  and 
himself  received  a  wound  which  sent  him  back  to  his 
sick-bed  for  a  further  long  period.  Only  his  strength 
of  constitution  pulled  him  through — for  himself,  he 
had  no  wish  to  live.  He  had  grown  to  hate  the  world 
and  his  fellow-men. 

It  was  worse  for  him  later  on,  when  his  health  was 
restored  to  him.  He  could  not  claim  his  child  as  his 
own.  For  her  own  sake  it  was  impossible.  Why  should 
she  be  branded  all  her  life  as  a  love-child?  Further- 
more, the  Earl  of  Albyn  was  Martyn's  dearest  friend 
at  that  time,  and  his  joy  and  happiness  over  his  sup- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  325 

posed  daughter  were  such  that  Martyn — whose  grudge 
was  always  against  the  race  of  mankind,  not  the  indi- 
vidual— could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  undeceive 
him. 

And  so  Lord  Martyn  accepted  the  ruling  of  fate,  and 
became  god-father — no  more — to  his  own  child.  How 
often  he  had  been  tempted  to  open  his  arms  to  her 
and  avow  the  truth,  none  but  himself  knew.  His  iron 
will  and  his  interest  in  the  girl's  future  had  alone  kept 
him  silent.  For,  as  it  was,  she  had  a  splendid  position 
and  an  honoured  name ;  what  could  he  offer  her  in  re- 
turn but  disgrace? 

Such  was  Lord  Martyn's  story  as  it  was  revealed 
to  Robin — revealed  under  the  stress  of  circumstances 
— a  secret  that  would  remain  a  secret  to  the  end,  as 
far,  at  least,  as  Robin's  fidelity  was  concerned. 

"I  saw  it  once  in  a  vision,"  groaned  the  unhappy 
man,  "that  the  blow  I  must  take  against  society  would 
redound  upon  myself.  Yet  I  went  on — I  set  the  pan- 
ther free.  And  now  the  claws  of  the  wild  beast,  wet 
as  they  are  with  my  child's  blood,  are  rending  at  my 
heart.  But  Zelie  shall  not  exult" — he  raised  his  clasped 
hands  above  his  head — "I  have  spared  her  too  long — 
spared  her  because  she  is  not  a  creature  of  to-day,  and 
because  I  have  said  'She  does  not  know' ;  but  now — 
my  child's  blood  calls  for  vengeance — God — let  me 
strike — and  die!" 

And  so  it  was  that,  in  spite  of  Robin's  efforts  to 
dissuade  him,  Martyn  avowed  his  resolution  of  going 
to  the  theatre.  And  Robin,  whose  heart  bled  for  his 
friend's  desperation  and  despair,  felt  bound  to  accom- 
pany him. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  lord,"  said  the  man  at  the  box  office, 
"but  there  isn't  a  seat  to  be  had  in  the  house." 

This  was  a  matter  of  small  importance  to  Martyn, 


326  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

who  had  free  entry  to  any  part  of  the  theatre.  "Never 
mind,"  he  replied.  Then  he  asked  quickly,  "Is  Sir 
Donald  Ransom  here?" 

The  clerk  had  no  need  to  consult  his  lists.  "You 
will  find  him  in  the  stage-box,  my  lord,"  he  replied. 
"But  I'm  afraid  Mile.  Zelie  is  half  through  her  dan- 
cing," he  added.  "She  came  on  a  little  earlier  than 
usual  to-night.  However,  the  Danse  du  Neant  is  still 
to  come." 

"We  will  find  Sir  Donald,"  said  Martyn  quickly. 
"The  stage-box."  There  was  a  curiously  strained  in- 
flection in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  the  words.  "Nothing 
could  be  better." 

"Donald  does  not  know — yet,"  he  whispered  in 
Robin's  ear  as  they  moved  away  together. 

An  attendant  escorted  them  to  the  door  of  the 
box  and  tapped  softly.  A  profound  silence  reigned 
throughout  the  theatre — Zelie  was  dancing. 

After  a  moment  the  door  was  opened  by  Donald 
himself — Robin  could  hear  his  muttered  ejaculation  of 
impatience  at  the  disturbance.  The  vast  auditorium 
was  practically  in  complete  darkness,  and  it  was  only 
by  the  light  from  the  corridor  without  that  the  occu- 
pant of  the  box  recognised  his  visitor. 

"Martyn — Harry — you !" 

There  had,  of  course,  been  strained  relationship  be- 
tween the  two.  Lord  Martyn  had  expostulated  with 
Sir  Donald  upon  his  behaviour,  at  first  gently,  but  later 
with  heat.  And  the  latter,  conscious  of  being  alto- 
gether in  the  wrong,  despising  himself  at  heart  for 
his  folly  and  cruelty,  had  borne  reproaches  ill — he  had 
found  his  only  refuge  in  roughness  and  brutality.  He 
had  spoken  harshly  of  Lady  Beatrice — what  sort  of 
wife  would  a  girl  make  who  was  capable  of  penning 
love  letters  to  a  popular  actor?  And  all  the  while  he 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  327 

had  known  himself  mean  and  cowardly — his  soul  as 
well  as  his  body  was  in  the  siren's  grip. 

The  attendant  closed  the  door  after  Martyn,  followed 
by  Robin,  had  entered.  There  at  the  back  of  the  box 
the  darkness  seemed  almost  profound.  The  orchestra 
was  making  soft,  lilting  music.  Robin  recognised  the 
melody.  He  knew  that  Zelie  had  almost  reached  the 
end  of  that  part  of  her  performance  which  preceded 
the  Danse  du  Neant.  She  was  portraying  the  Eternal 
Temptress  in  the  character  of  some  Court  beauty  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  He  had  only  to  advance  to 
the  front  and  glance  to  his  left,  where  a  ruddy  glow 
indicated  the  stage,  to  see  the  dancer  herself,  to  be 
so  near  to  her  that  a  spring  and  a  few  steps  might 
place  him  by  her  side.  It  was  the  stage-box. 

Martyn  and  Sir  Donald  were  standing  confronting 
each  other.  The  younger  man  was  breathing  heavily, 
wrathfully.  The  elder  had  gained  a  remarkable  com- 
posure. His  brain-storm  seemed  to  have  passed  away 
now  that  he  was  about  to  carry  out  an  indomitable 
purpose. 

"Donald,  she  is  dead/'  he  said  quietly.  "You  have 
killed  her.  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"She?  Who?  In  Heaven's  name,  what  do  you 
mean  ?"  Sir  Donald  fell  back,  the  hands  which  he  had 
raised  in  angry  protest  dropping  to  his  sides. 

"You  know  what  I  mean — to  whom  I  refer.  Beatrice 
is  dead.  You  have  slain  a  pure,  sweet  girl,  crushed 
the  life  out  of  a  loving  heart — for  the  sake  of — that! 
Look,  man !  Look !" 

Martyn's  heavy  hand  dropped  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  thrusting  him  forward  to  the  front  of  the 
box.  The  stage  was  in  full  view  now.  They  stood  in 
the  light. 

"My  God— dead !    It's  a  lie— it  can't  be  true !" 


328  TWO  APACHES   OF  PARIS 

"Slain  for  that!"  repeated  Martyn,  the  weight  of 
his  hand  growing  heavier. 

The  lilt  of  the  music  had  changed  to  a  wail  now. 
Zelie  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  slim  and  lithe, 
her  form  but  lightly  covered  with  gauzy,  filmy  drapery 
— for,  save  in  the  final  dance,  she  still  disdained  elab- 
orate accessories  of  costume  and  scenery  to  indicate 
the  particular  epoch  or  character  that  she  represented 
— and  in  her  hands,  uplifted  above  her  head,  she  held 
a  cluster  of  red  roses.  Gradually  the  bare  white  arms 
were  lowered  until  the  flowers  were  on  a  level  with 
her  smiling,  cruel  mouth;  then,  as  her  lips  touched 
them,  the  blossoms  fell  to  pieces,  scattering  in  a  shower 
of  scarlet  petals  to  her  feet.  And  it  was  as  if  every 
petal  was  a  drop  of  blood. 

The  curtain  fell  amid  a  storm  of  applause,  but  the 
theatre  remained  in  darkness.  Donald  Ransom  had 
sunk  into  a  chair,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  The 
quivering  of  his  shoulders  betokened  the  agony  he 
endured.  Once  Robin  caught  the  sound  of  a  low  moan. 
Lord  Martyn  stood  silently  by  his  side.  He  had  the 
appearance  of  one  who  is  waiting  for  the  fulfilment 
of  destiny. 

"Body  and  soul" — Robin  was  muttering  the  words 
to  himself  as  he  gazed  at  his  two  companions — "she 
destroys  them  body  and  soul."  He  was  thinking  of 
Harry  Martyn  as  he  had  known  him — strong  of  body 
and  spirit,  steadfast  of  purpose — a  man  whose  nature 
it  was  to  be  unyielding  to  the  end.  "What  I  have 
done,  I  have  done,"  was  his  motto.  But  Zelie  had 
broken  him — he  had  repented  him  of  the  blow  which  he 
had  struck  against  society — repented  because  he  him- 
self had  been  sorely  smitten.  The  fineness  of  the  man's 
character  had  been  undermined — Zelie  had  abased  his 
spirit  if  she  had  had  no  dominion  over  his  body.  And 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  329 

how  would  he  behave  now — now  that  personal  grief 
had  driven  him  to  despair?  Would  his  strength  be 
restored  to  him  for  one  brief  moment — even  as  to 
Samson  after  the  shearing  of  his  locks? 

And  Donald  Ransom,  quivering  there  in  a  torment 
of  self-reproach,  freed  for  the  time  being  from  the 
spell  of  the  enchantress — what  of  him?  The  world 
had  honoured  him,  he  had  held  his  head  high — and 
with  cause — he  had  never  forfeited  his  self-respect 
till  Zelie  had  obsessed  him.  But  now  he  was  like  a 
whipped  child,  his  very  manhood  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  him,  he  was  an  object  of  scorn. 

"The  vampire  has  absorbed  his  spirit  as  she  has 
sucked  his  blood,"  Robin  whispered  to  himself;  "he 
will  never  lift  his  head  again." 

And  with  the  rest,  the  other  victims  of  the  Snake- 
woman,  had  it  not  been  the  same?  Body  and  soul — 
the  worker  of  evil — she  had  destroyed  them  all. 

"She  is  not  fit  to  live !"  Robin  muttered.  "Is  there 
not  one  to  slay  the  monster?" 

The  curtain  rose  again.  A  burst  of  applause,  which 
sounded  strange  and  weird  in  the  darkened  house,  her- 
alded the  first  appearance  of  Bibi  Coupe-vide  since  his 
trial.  The  Danse  du  Neant  had  commenced. 

Robin  had  seen  the  dance  many  a  time,  and  loathed 
it.  He  abhorred  the  slow,  voluptuous  waltz  tune,  the 
suggestive  pauses,  the  sensual  abandonment  of  music 
and  gesture.  Zelie,  in  her  close-fitting  black  dress,  a 
rose  between  her  lips  and  at  the  side  of  her  head,  her 
hair  parted  and  drawn  back  tightly  over  her  ears, 
seemed  to  him  a  more  wicked  and  ill-omened  figure 
than  when  she  appeared  with  the  glamour  of  the  past 
to  leaven  the  vice  which  every  step  of  her  dancing 
portrayed. 

And  the  evil  of  it  all  was  more  obvious  to  him  now 


330  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

than  ever  before.  Zelie  and  Bibi  put  a  fierceness  into 
their  dancing  which  was  terrifying  in  its  intensity. 
There  was  not  a  member  of  the  audience  who  did  not 
hold  his  breath,  spell-bound.  When  the  man  raised 
his  fist  it  was  as  if  every  nerve  in  his  body  was  a-tingle 
with  the  desire  to  strike  indeed;  one  felt  that  he  was 
dominated  by  but  one  idea — to  crush,  subdue,  or  kill — 
this  piece  of  frail  femininity  that  fell  in  voluptuous 
attitudes  in  his  arms,  only  to  withdraw,  laughing, 
mocking,  defiant. 

And  Zelie — her  eyes  shone  as  they  had  never  shone 
before,  her  sharp  white  teeth  flashed  from  behind 
straight  red  lips,  and  there  were  many  who  saw  her 
dance  that  night  who  shuddered  and  turned  away  their 
heads  as  from  the  vision  of  something  too  intense  for 
the  understanding  of  merely  human  eyes. 

For  how  were  they  to  know  that  here  was  hate — 
most  primitive  of  emotions — lust,  wrath  unbridled — all 
the  evil  passions  that  heart  of  man  can  conceive — 
not  merely  portrayed  by  capable  actors,  but  actually 
-existent?  Zelie  and  Bibi  were  not  acting — every  ges- 
ture, every  movement  of  that  wild  dance  was  true 
,to  one  as  to  the  other.  To  those  who  watched,  it  was 
art ;  but  to  the  man  and  woman  upon  the  stage  it  was 
Astern  reality. 

Now  and  again  the  lips  of  the  dancers  moved,  and 
it  was  evident  that  they  spoke  together,  though  none 
might  know  the  words  that  passed  between  them.  Only 
Zelie  laughed  and  mocked,  and  her  eyes  were  like 
sparkling  emeralds  as  now  and  again  she  turned  them 
in  the  direction  of  the  box  which  she  knew — and  which 
Bibi  knew — to  be  occupied  by  her  lover.  In  the  gloom 
of  the  auditorium  she  could  not  see  what  was  passing 
there,  nor  who  stood  by  his  side,  nor  how  he  sat  hud- 
dled together  in  his  chair,  an  abject  figure  of  distress. 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  331 

And  the  more  she  mocked,  the  fiercer  and  more 
determined  grew  the  face  of  her  partner  in  the  dance. 
Ugly  and  vile  at  the  best  of  times,  it  was  hideous  now. 
Bibi  Coupe-vide  was  animal  as  Zelie  was  animal,  and 
the  instincts  of  the  beasts  were  running  riot  in  their 
breasts.  Once  the  man  held  the  woman  tightly  to  him, 
and  his  lips  sought  hers,  while  she  stiffened  her  body 
in  his  embrace  and  thrust  him  from  her  with  all  her 
force ;  then,  when  her  resistance  was  overpowered,  she 
struck  him  upon  the  cheek,  struck  him  with  her 
clenched  fist.  And  the  vast  audience  held  its  breath  at 
this  astounding  demonstration  of  art. 

And  so  they  swayed  and  swung,  now  in  each  other's 
arms,  now  apart,  crouching  as  if  preparing  for  a 
spring,  for  a  fresh  attack,  and  it  was  at  one  of  these 
moments,  when  Zelie  had  been  thrown  to  her  knees 
close  under  her  lover's  box,  that  Robin  noticed  Lord 
Martyn  raise  his  hand,  and  the  light  from  the  stage 
glinted  for  a  moment  upon  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol. 

"My  God !  Martyn !    What  are  you  about  to  do?" 

Robin  clasped  his  friend's  arm,  and  the  movement 
saved  Zelie  for  the  time  being,  for  the  next  moment 
she  had  sprung  back  into  Bibi's  arms,  and  the  pair 
were  whirling  round  the  stage  in  a  frenzied  waltz. 

Martyn  turned  furiously  upon  Robin.  "Damn  you, 
Clithero !  he  muttered.  "Why  did  you  interfere  with 
me?  I  would  have  shot  her  down  then — shot  her  as 
I'd  shoot  a  mad  dog!  That's  the  way  I  propose  to 
make  public  protest.  But  there's  time  yet — they'll  be 
apart  again  presently.  I've  only  to  wait." 

A  few  minutes  earlier  Robin  had  asked  himself  if 
there  was  no  one  to  slay  the  beast.  But  now — he  had 
not  thought  of  this!  Yet,  though  he  shuddered,  he 
felt,  in  some  vague,  indescribable  manner,  that  what 
Martyn  was  about  to  do,  what  he  had  come  to  the 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

theatre  with  the  fixed  intention  of  doing",  was  really 
no  more  than  might  have  been  expected  of  the  man — 
so  Samson,  of  the  shorn  head,  had  seized  the  pillar  of 
the  temple  and  overwhelmed  his  enemies.  The  world 
had  no  punishment  to  inflict  upon  Zelie,  worker  of 
evil,  so  he  who  gave  her  to  the  world  must  be  the  one 
to  mete  out  the  penalty  she  deserved. 

But  it  was  murder — murder!  Robin  stood  in  pain- 
ful suspense  and  hesitation.  What  was  he  to  do?  He 
could  not  allow  Martyn  to  carry  out  his  fell  inten- 
tion. Should  he  give  the  alarm?  Should  he  throw 
himself  upon  his  friend  and  wrench  the  revolver  from 
his  hand?  At  any  moment  now  the  opportunity  to 
shoot  might  present  itself. 

Martyn  did  not  seem  to  anticipate  any  further  oppo- 
sition from  Robin.  He  had  taken  up  his  position  at 
the  front  of  the  box,  and  the  hand  that  held  the  re- 
volver rested  lightly  upon  the  velvet-covered  ledge. 
He  was  prepared.  Donald  Ransom  saw  nothing,  real- 
ised nothing  of  what  was  about  to  happen — he  had 
lifted  his  head,  and  his  bloodshot  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  stage — upon  Zelie. 

"I  must  seize  his  arm  again — prevent  him  shoot- 
ing." So  Robin  muttered  to  himself.  Then  he,  too, 
waited,  watching. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  couple  upon 
the  stage  were  no  longer  dancing,  but  actually  strug- 
gling with  each  other.  If  it  were  indeed  art,  then  it 
was  the  very  acme  of  realism.  But  presently  his  sus- 
picions were  confirmed.  Zelie  gave  vent  to  a  loud  cry : 

"Let  me  loose — gredin — rogue — vagabond !" 

Bibi  did  not  let  her  loose.  With  one  arm  he  grasped 
her  the  tighter.  Something  flashed  in  his  right  .hand. 
Not  a  soul  in  that  vast  audience  but  held  his  breath, 
worked  up  to  fever  heat  of  excitement  by  the  extraor- 


TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS  333 

dinary  performance  upon  the  stage.  From  high  up 
in  the  gallery  someone  ventured  to  applaud,  to  whistle 
— an  immediate  cry  of  "hush!"  followed  this  mani- 
festation of  feeling. 

"He  means  it — my  God — he  means  it !"  The  words 
escaped  from  Robin's  lips,  but  they  were  drowned  in 
a  shriek  from  Zelie — such  a  shriek  as  surely  had  never 
before  been  heard  upon  the  stage  of  the  Star  Theatre. 

"He  is  killing  me — help — murder !" 

The  knife  was  lifted,  and  fell  so  swiftly  that  few  in 
the  audience  witnessed  the  blow.  Only  Zelie  staggered 
forward,  then  once  more  the  arms  of  the  man  encir- 
cled her,  and  his  lips  were  pressed  against  her  lips 
as  she  reeled  against  him.  For  a  few  moments  he 
upheld  her,  then  she  slipped  from  his  grasp  and  fell 
to  her  knees. 

Applause  broke  forth  from  the  greater  part  of  the 
house,  but  there  were  some  who  hissed,  and  cried  "It 
is  too  much !"  while  others  stared  at  their  friends  and 
at  the  stage  with  blanched  faces — wondering,  doubting, 
fearing. 

And  very  soon  the  ghastly  truth  became  self-evident. 
Those  in  the  front  could  see  the  life  blood  welling 
from  Zelie's  breast,  staining  her  dress  and  the  boards 
of  the  stage  at  her  feet.  At  that  moment  Robin  re- 
membered the  shower  of  rose  petals,  and  shuddered. 

Then,  as  Zelie  collapsed,  lying  prone  upon  the 
ground,  Bibi,  still  holding  the  fatal  knife,  bent  over 
her  and  broke  into  a  fit  of  sobbing,  moaning  as  a  wild 
animal  may  moan  for  its  mate.  He  saw  nothing  of 
the  great  mass  of  people  whom  his  act  had  thrown 
into  wild  confusion — almost  panic — heard  nothing  of 
the  frightened  screams  which  went  up  from  every  side 
as  women  rushed  for  the  doors,  or  fainted  where  they 


334  TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS 

sat;  knew  nothing  save  that  Zelie  was  dead,  and  by 
his  hand. 

Donald  Ransom  sprang  from  the  box  to  the  stage. 
He  rushed  upon  Bibi  with  clenched  fists.  He  was 
followed  by  others.  Then,  swiftly,  the  curtain  fell. 

Lord  Martyn  had  dropped  his  revolver  to  the  floor. 
He  threw  up  his  arms  despairingly,  then  sank  into  a 
chair. 

Robin  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "Thank 
God!"  he  cried  fervently.  "You  have  been  spared  a 
crime !" 

Martyn  broke  into  a  wild  laugh.  "Spared  a  crime !" 
he  exclaimed,  and  his  tone  was  one  of  utter  despair. 
"Is  there  no  mercy  in  Heaven?  I  had  asked  but  this 
— that  my  hand  might  slay.  But  now  even  that  has 
been  taken  from  me.  My  daughter's  blood  has  cried 
to  me  for  vengeance — in  vain !" 

Sobs  convulsed  his  frame;  but  as  for  Zelie,  the 
Snake- woman,  the  worker  of  evil — the  curtain  had 
fallen  upon  her — for  the  last  time. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000778914     2 


